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SANTA     CRUZ 


Gift  of 

Mrs.   Mary  Anne  Whipple 


WOUNDS  in  the  RAIN 


WOUNDS    IN 
THE     RAIN 

W^ar  Stories 

BY 

STEPHEN  CRANE 

Author  of 

"The  Red  Badge  of  Courage,"  "Active  Service," 
"  War  is  Kind,"  etc. 


Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company 

Publishers 


Copyright,  1899,  by 
S.  S.  MCCLURE  COMPANY. 

Copyright,  1899,  by 
THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 

Copyright,  1899,  by 
FRANK  LESLIE  PUBLISHING  HOUSE  (Incorporated). 

Copyright,  1900,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY. 

All  Bights  Reserved. 


TO 

dfcoreton  jfrewen 

THIS  SMALL  TOKEN   OF  THINGS 
WELL  REMEMBERED  BY 

HIS  FRIEND 
STEPHEN  CRANE. 
BREDH  PLACE,  SUSSEX,  April*  1900. 


(185 


1100 


CONTENTS 


THE  PRICE  OF  THE  HARNESS i 

THE  LONE  CHARGE  OF  WILLIAM  B.   PERKINS 33 

THE  CLAN  OF  NO-NAME 42 

GOD  REST  YE,  MERRY  GENTLEMEN ': . .  74 

THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  ADOLPHUS 107 

THE  SERGEANT'S    PRIVATE  MADHOUSE 138 

VIRTUE  IN  WAR 152 

MARINES  SIGNALLING  UNDER  FIRE  AT  GUANTANAMO.  178 

THIS  MAJESTIC  LIE 190 

WAR  MEMORIES 229 

THE  SECOND  GENERATION 309 


WOUNDS  IN  THE  RAIN 


THE  PRICE  OF  THE  HARNESS 


TWENTY-FIVE  men  were  making  a  road  out  of 
a  path  up  the  hillside.  The  light  batteries  in  the 
rear  were  impatient  to  advance,  but  first  must  be 
done  all  that  digging  and  smoothing  which  gains 
no  encrusted  medals  from  war.  The  men  worked 
like  gardeners,  and  a  road  was  growing  from  the 
old  pack-animal  trail. 

Trees  arched  from  a  field  of  guinea-grass  which 
resembled  young  wild  corn.  The  day  was  still 
and  dry.  The  men  working  were  dressed  in  the 
consistent  blue  of  United  States  regulars.  They 
looked  indifferent,  almost  stolid,  despite  the 
heat  and  the  labour.  There  was  little  talking. 
From  time  to  time  a  Government  pack-train,  led 
by  a  sleek-sided  tender  bell-mare,  come  from  one 
way  or  the  other  way,  and  the  men  stood  aside 


2  WOUNDS   IN   THE   RAIN 

as  the  strong,  hard,  black-and-tan  animals  crowded 
eagerly  after  their  curious  little  feminine  leader. 

A  volunteer  staff-officer  appeared,  and,  sitting 
on  his  horse  in  the  middle  of  the  work,  asked  the 
sergeant  in  command  some  questions  which  were 
apparently  not  relevant  to  any  military  business. 
Men  straggling  along  on  various  duties  almost  in- 
variably spun  some  kind  of  a  joke  as  they  passed. 

A  corporal  and  four  men  were  guarding  boxes 
of  spare  ammunition  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and 
one  of  the  number  often  went  to  the  foot  of  the 
hill  swinging  canteens. 

The  day  wore  down  to  the  Cuban  dusk,  in 
which  the  shadows  are  all  grim  and  of  ghostly 
shape.  The  men  began  to  lift  their  eyes  from 
the  shovels  and  picks,  and  glance  in  the  direction 
of  their  camp.  The  sun  threw  his  last  lance 
through  the  foliage.  The  steep  mountain- range 
on  the  right  turned  blue  and  as  without  detail  as 
a  curtain.  The  tiny  ruby  of  light  ahead  meant 
that  the  ammunition-guard  were  cooking  their 
supper.  From  somewhere  in  the  world  came  a 
single  rifle-shot. 

Figures  appeared,  dim  in  the  shadow  of  the 
trees.  A  murmur,  a  sigh  of  quiet  relief,  arose 
from  the  working  party.  Later,  they  swung  up 
the  hill  in  an  unformed  formation,  being  always 


THE   PRICE   OF   THE    HARNESS  3 

like  soldiers,  and  unable  even  to  carry  a  spade 
save  like  United  States  regular  soldiers.  As  they 
passed  through  some  fields,  the  bland  white  light 
of  the  end  of  the  day  feebly  touched  each  hard 
bronze  profile. 

"  Wonder  if  we'll  git  anythin'  to  eat,"  said 
Watkins,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Should  think  so,"  said  Nolan,  in  the  same 
tone.  They  betrayed  no  impatience ;  they  seemed 
to  feel  a  kind  of  awe  of  the  situation. 

The  sergeant  turned.  One  could  see  the  cool 
grey  eye  flashing  under  the  brim  of  the  campaign 
hat.  "  What  in  hell  you  fellers  kickin'  about  ?  " 
he  asked.  They  made  no  reply,  understanding 
that  they  were  being  suppressed. 

As  they  moved  on,  a  murmur  arose  from  the 
tall  grass  on  either  hand.  It  was  the  noise  from 
the  bivouac  of  ten  thousand  men,  although  one 
saw  practically  nothing  from  the  low-cart  road- 
way. The  sergeant  led  his  party  up  a  wet  clay 
bank  and  into  a  trampled  field.  Here  were  scat- 
tered tiny  white  shelter  tents,  and  in  the  darkness 
they  were  luminous  like  the  rearing  stones  in  a 
graveyard.  A  few  fires  burned  blood-red,  and 
the  shadowy  figures  of  men  moved  with  no  more 
expression  of  detail  than  there  is  in  the  swaying 
of  foliage  on  a  windy  night. 


4  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

The  working  party  felt  their  way  to  where 
their  tents  were  pitched.  A  man  suddenly 
cursed ;  he  had  mislaid  something,  and  he  knew 
he  was  not  going  to  find  it  that  night.  Watkins 
spoke  again  with  the  monotony  of  a  clock, 
"  Wonder  if  we'll  git  anythin'  to  eat." 

Martin,  with  eyes  turned  pensively  to  the  stars, 
began  a  treatise.  "  Them  Spaniards " 

"  Oh,  quit  it,"  cried  Nolan.  "  What  th'  piper 
do  you  know  about  th'  Spaniards,  you  fat-headed 
Dutchman  ?  Better  think  of  your  belly,  you 
blunderin'  swine,  an'  what  you're  goin'  to  put  in 
it,  grass  or  dirt." 

A  laugh,  a  sort  of  a  deep  growl,  arose  from  the 
prostrate  men.  In  the  meantime  the  sergeant 
had  reappeared  and  was  standing  over  them. 
"  No  rations  to-night,"  he  said  gruffly,  and  turn- 
ing on  his  heel,  walked  away. 

This  announcement  was  received  in  silence. 
But  Watkins  had  flung  himself  face  downward, 
and  putting  his  lips  close  to  a  tuft  of  grass,  he 
formulated  oaths.  Martin  arose  and,  going  to 
his  shelter,  crawled  in  sulkily.  After  a  long  in- 
terval Nolan  said  aloud,  "  Hell ! "  Grierson, 
enlisted  for  the  war,  raised  a  querulous  voice. 
"  Well,  I  wonder  when  we  will  git  fed?  " 

From  the  ground  about  him  came  a  low  chuckle, 


THE    PRICE   OF   THE    HARNESS  5 

full  of  ironical  comment  upon  Grierson's  lack  of 
certain  qualities  which  the  other  men  felt  them- 
selves to  possess. 


II 

In  the  cold  light  of  dawn  the  men  were  on 
their  knees,  packing,  strapping,  and  buckling. 
The  comic  toy  hamlet  of  shelter-tents  had  been 
wiped  out  as  if  by  a  cyclone.  Through  the  trees 
could  be  seen  the  crimson  of  a  light  battery's 
blankets,  and  the  wheels  creaked  like  the  sound 
of  a  musketry  fight.  Nolan,  -well  gripped  by  his 
shelter  tent,  his  blanket,  and  his  cartridge-belt, 
and  bearing  his  rifle,  advanced  upon  a  small 
group  of  men  who  were  hastily  finishing  a  can 
of  coffee. 

"  Say,  give  us  a  drink,  will  yeh  ?  "  he  asked, 
wistfully.  He  was  as  sad-eyed  as  an  orphan 
beggar. 

Every  man  in  the  group  turned  to  look  him 
straight  in  the  face.  He  had  asked  for  the  prin- 
cipal ruby  out  of  each  one's  crown.  There  was 
a  grim  silence.  Then  one  said,  "  What  fer  ? " 
Nolan  cast  his  glance  to  the  ground,  and  went 
away  abashed. 


6  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

But  he  espied  Watkins  and  Martin  surrounding 
Grierson,  who  had  gained  three  pieces  of  hard- 
tack by  mere  force  of  his  audacious  inexperience. 
Grierson  was  fending  his  comrades  off  tearfully. 

"  Now,  don't  be  damn  pigs,"  he  cried.  "  Hold 
on  a  minute."  Here  Nolan  asserted  a  claim. 
Grierson  groaned.  Kneeling  piously,  he  divided 
the  hard-tack  with  minute  care  into  four  portions. 
The  men,  who  had  had  their  heads  together  like 
players  watching  a  wheel  of  fortune,  arose  sud- 
denly, each  chewing.  Nolan  interpolated  a  drink 
of  water,  and  sighed  contentedly. 

The  whole  forest  seemed  to  be  moving.  From 
the  field  on  the  other  side  of  the  road  a  column 
of  men  in  blue  was  slowly  pouring ;  the  battery 
had  creaked  on  ahead ;  from  the  rear  came  a  hum 
of  advancing  regiments.  Then  from  a  mile  away 
rang  the  noise  of  a  shot ;  then  another  shot ;  in 
a  moment  the  rifles  there  were  drumming,  drum- 
ming, drumming.  The  artillery  boomed  out  sud- 
denly. A  day  of  battle  was  begun. 

The  men  made  no  exclamations.  They  rolled 
their  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  and  then 
swept  with  a  calm  glance  the  forests  and  the  hills 
which  surrounded  them,  implacably  mysterious 
forests  and  hills  which  lent  to  every  rifle-shot  the 
ominous  quality  which  belongs  to  secret  assassi- 


THE   PRICE   OF  THE    HARNESS  7 

nation.  The  whole  scene  would  have  spoken  to 
the  private  soldiers  of  ambushes,  sudden  flank 
attacks,  terrible  disasters,  if  it  were  not  for  those 
cool  gentlemen  with  shoulder-straps  and  swords 
who,  the  private  soldiers  knew,  were  of  another 
world  and  omnipotent  for  the  business. 

The  battalions  moved  out  into  the  mud  and 
began  a  leisurely  march  in  the  damp  shade  of  the 
trees.  The  advance  of  two  batteries  had  churned 
the  black  soil  into  a  formidable  paste.  The 
brown  leggings  of  the  men,  stained  with  the  mud 
of  other  days,  took  on  a  deeper  colour.  Perspi- 
ration broke  gently  out  on  the  reddish  faces. 
With  his  heavy  roll  of  blanket  and  the  half  of  a 
shelter-tent  crossing  his  right  shoulder  and  under 
his  left  arm,  each  man  presented  the  appearance 
of  being  clasped  from  behind,  wrestler  fashion,  by 
a  pair  of  thick  white  arms. 

There  was  something  distinctive  in  the  way 
they  carried  their  rifles.  There  was  the  grace  of 
an  old  hunter  somewhere  in  it,  the  grace  of  a  man 
whose  rifle  has  become  absolutely  a  part  of  him- 
self. Furthermore,  almost  every  blue  shirt  sleeve 
was  rolled  to  the  elbow,  disclosing  fore-arms  of 
almost  incredible  brawn.  The  rifles  seemed  light, 
almost  fragile,  in  the  hands  that  were  at  the  end 
of  these  arms,  never  fat  but  always  with  rolling 


8  WOUNDS   IN   THE   RAIN 

muscles  and  veins  that  seemed  on  the  point  of 
bursting.  And  another  thing  was  the  silence  and 
the  marvellous  impassivity  of  the  faces  as  the 
column  made  its  slow  way  toward  where  the 
whole  forest  spluttered  and  fluttered  with  battle. 

Opportunely,  the  battalion  was  halted  a-straddle 
of  a  stream,  and  before  it  again  moved,  most  of 
the  men  had  filled  their  canteens.  The  firing 
increased.  Ahead  and  to  the  left  a  battery  was 
booming  at  methodical  intervals,  while  the  in- 
fantry racket  was  that  continual  drumming  which, 
after  all,  often  sounds  like  rain  on  a  roof.  Di- 
rectly ahead  one  could  hear  the  deep  voices  of 
field-pieces. 

Some  -wounded  Cubans  were  carried  by  in 
litters  improvised  from  hammocks  swung  on  poles. 
One  had  a  ghastly  cut  in  the  throat,  probably 
from  a  fragment  of  shell,  and  his  head  was  turned 
as  if  Providence  particularly  wished  to  display 
this  wide  and  lapping  gash  to  the  long  column 
that  was  winding  toward  the  front.  And  another 
Cuban,  shot  through  the  groin,  kept  up  a  con- 
tinual wail  as  he  swung  from  the  tread  of  his 
bearers.  "  Ay — ee  !  Ay — ee  !  Madre  mia  !  Madre 
mia !  "  He  sang  this  bitter  ballad  into  the  ears 
of  at  least  three  thousand  men  as  they  slowly 
made  way  for  his  bearers  on  the  narrow  wood- 


THE   PRICE   OF   THE    HARNESS  9 

path.  These  wounded  insurgents  were,  then,  to 
a  large  part  of  the  advancing  army,  the  visible 
messengers  of  bloodshed  and  death,  and  the  men 
regarded  them  with  thoughtful  awe.  This  dole- 
ful sobbing  cry — "  Madre  mia  " — was  a  tangible 
consequent  misery  of  all  that  firing  on  in  front 
into  which  the  men  knew  they  were  soon  to  be 
plunged.  Some'  of  them  wished  to  inquire  of  the 
bearers  the  details  of  what  had  happened  ;  but 
they  could  not  speak  Spanish,  and  so  it  was  as  if 
fate  had  intentionally  sealed  the  lips  of  all  in 
order  that  even  meagre  information  might  not 
leak  out  concerning  this  mystery — battle.  On 
the  other  hand,  many  unversed  private  soldiers 
looked  upon  the  unfortunate  as  men  who  had 
seen  thousands  maimed  and  bleeding,  and  abso- 
lutely could  not  conjure  any  further  interest  in 
such  scenes. 

A  young  staff-officer  passed  on  horseback.  The 
vocal  Cuban  was  always  wailing,  but  the  officer 
wheeled  past  the  bearers  without  heeding  any- 
thing. And  yet  he  never  before  had  seen  such  a 
sight.  His  case  was  different  from  that  of  the 
private  soldiers.  He  heeded  nothing  because  he 
was  busy — immensely  busy  and  hurried  with  a 
multitude  of  reasons  and  desires  for  doing  his 
duty  perfectly.  His  whole  life  had  been  a  mere 


10  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

period  of  preliminary  reflection  for  this  situation, 
and  he  had  no  clear  idea  of  anything  save  his 
obligation  as  an  officer.  A  man  of  this  kind  might 
be  stupid ;  it  is  conceivable  that  in  remote  cases 
certain  bumps  on  his  head  might  be  composed 
entirely  of  wood  ;  but  those  traditions  of  fidelity 
and  courage  which  have  been  handed  to  him 
from  generation  to  generation,  and  which  he  has 
tenaciously  preserved  despite  the  persecution  of 
legislators  and  the  indifference  of  his  country, 
make  it  incredible  that  in  battle  he  should  ever 
fail  to  give  his  best  blood  and  his  best  thought 
for  his  general,  for  his  men,  and  for  himself.  And 
so  this  young  officer  in  the  shapeless  hat  and  the 
torn  and  dirty  shirt  failed  to  heed  the  wails  of 
the  wounded  man,  even  as  the  pilgrim  fails  to 
heed  the  world  as  he  raises  his  illumined  face 
toward  his  purpose — rightly  or  wrongly,  his  pur- 
pose— his  sky  of  the  ideal  of  duty ;  and  the 
wonderful  part  of  it  is,  that  he  is  guided  by  an 
ideal  which  he  has  himself  created,  and  has  alone 
protected  from  attack.  The  young  man  was 
merely  an  officer  in  the  United  States  regular 
army. 

The  column  swung  across  a  shallow  ford  and  took 
a  road  which  passed  the  right  flank  of  one  of  the 
American  batteries.  On  a  hill  it  was  booming 


THE    PRICE   OF   THE    HARNESS  II 

and  belching  great  clouds  of  white  smoke.  The 
infantry  looked  up  with  interest.  Arrayed  below 
the  hill  and  behind  the  battery  were  the  horses 
and  limbers,  the  riders  checking  their  pawing 
mounts,  and  behind  each  rider  a  red  blanket 
flamed  against  the  fervent  green  of  the  bushes. 
As  the  infantry  moved  along  the  road,  some  of 
the  battery  horses  turned  at  the  noise  of  the 
trampling  feet  and  surveyed  the  men  with  eyes  as 
deep  as  wells,  serene,  mournful,  generous  eyes, 
lit  heart-breakingly  with  something  that  was  akin 
to  a  philosophy,  a  religion  of  self-sacrifice — oh, 
gallant,  gallant  horses ! 

"  I  know  a  feller  in  that  battery,"  said  Nolan, 
musingly.  "  A  driver." 

"  Dam  sight  rather  be  a  gunner,"  said  Martin. 

"  Why  would  ye  ?  "  said  Nolan,  opposingly. 

"  Well,  I'd  take  my  chances  as  a  gunner  b'fore 
I'd  sit  way  up  in  th'  air  on  a  raw-boned  plug  an* 
git  shot  at." 

"Aw "  began  Nolan. 

"  They've  had  some  losses  t'-day  all  right,"  in- 
terrupted Grierson. 

"  Horses?  "  asked  Watkins. 

"  Horses  and  men  too,"  said  Grierson. 

"  How  d'yeh  know  ?  " 

"A  feller  told  me  there  by  the  ford." 


12  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

They  kept  only  a  part  of  their  minds  bearing 
on  this  discussion  because  they  could  already  hear 
high  in  the  air  the  wire-string  note  of  the  enemy's 
bullets. 


Ill 

The  road  taken  by  this  battalion  as  it  followed 
other  battalions  is  something  less  than  a  mile  long 
in  its  journey  across  a  heavily-wooded  plain.  It 
is  greatly  changed  now, — in  fact  it  was  metamor- 
phosed in  two  days  ;  but  at  that  time  it  was  a  mere 
track  through  dense  shrubbery,  from  which  rose 
great  dignified  arching  trees.  It  was,  in  fact,  a 
path  through  a  jungle. 

The  battalion  had  no  sooner  left  the  battery  in 
rear  when  bullets  began  to  drive  overhead.  They 
made  several  different  sounds,  but  as  these  were 
mainly  high  shots  it  was  usual  for  them  to  make 
the  faint  note  of  a  vibrant  string,  touched  elu- 
sively,  half-dreamily. 

The  military  balloon,  a  fat,  wavering,  yellow 
thing,  was  leading  the  advance  like  some  new  con- 
ception of  war-god.  Its  bloated  mass  shone  above 
the  trees,  and  served  incidentally  to  indicate  to 
the  men  at  the  rear  that  comrades  were  in  advance. 


THE    PRICE   OF   THE    HARNESS  13 

The  track  itself  exhibited  for  all  its  visible  length 
a  closely-knit  procession  of  soldiers  in  blue  with 
breasts  crossed  with  white  shelter-tents.  The  first 
ominous  order  of  battle  came  down  the  line. 
"  Use  the  cut-off.  Don't  use  the  magazine  until 
you're  ordered."  Non-commissioned  officers  re- 
peated the  command  gruffly.  A  sound  of  clicking 
locks  rattled  along  the  columns.  All  men  knew 
that  the  time  had  come. 

The  front  had  burst  out  with  a  roar  like  a  brush- 
fire.  The  balloon  was  dying,  dying  a  gigantic  and 
public  death  before  the  eyes  of  two  armies.  It 
quivered,  sank,  faded  into  the  trees  amid  the  flurry 
of  a  battle  that  was  suddenly  and  tremendously 
like  a  storm. 

The  American  battery  thundered  behind  the 
men  with  a  shock  that  seemed  likely  to  tear  the 
backs  of  their  heads  off.  The  Spanish  shrapnel 
fled  on  a  line  to  their  left,  swirling  and  swishing 
in  supernatural  velocity.  The  noise  of  the  rifle 
bullets  broke  in  their  faces  like  the  noise  of  so 
many  lamp-chimneys  or  sped  overhead  in  swift 
cruel  spitting.  And  at  the  front  the  battle-sound, 
as  if  it  were  simply  music,  was  beginning  to  swell 
and  swell  until  the  volleys  rolled  like  a  surf. 

The  officers  shouted  hoarsely,  "  Come  on, 
men  !  Hurry  up,  boys !  Come  on  now  !  Hurry 


14  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

up  ! "  The  soldiers,  running  heavily  in  their  ac- 
coutrements, dashed  forward.  A  baggage  guard 
was  swiftly  detailed  ;  the  men  tore  their  rolls 
from  their  shoulders  as  if  the  things  were  afire. 
The  battalion,  stripped  for  action,  again  dashed 
forward. 

"  Come  on,  men  !  Come  on  !  "  To  them  the 
battle  was  as  yet  merely  a  road  through  the  woods 
crowded  with  troops,  who  lowered  their  heads 
anxiously  as  the  bullets  fled  high.  But  a  moment 
later  the  column  wheeled  abruptly  to  the  left  and 
entered  a  field  of  tall  green  grass.  The  line  scat- 
tered to  a  skirmish  formation.  In  front  was  a 
series  of  knolls  treed  sparsely  like  orchards ;  and 
although  no  enemy  was  visible,  these  knolls  were 
all  popping  and  spitting  with  rifle-fire.  In  some 
places  there  were  to  be  seen  long  grey  lines  of 
dirt,  intrenchments.  The  American  shells  were 
kicking  up  reddish  clouds  of  dust  from  the  brow 
of  one  of  the  knolls,  where  stood  a  pagoda-like 
house.  It  was  not  much  like  a  battle  with  men  ; 
it  was  a  battle  with  a  bit  of  charming  scenery, 
enigmatically  potent  for  death. 

Nolan  knew  that  Martin  had  suddenly  fallen. 
"What "  he  began. 

"  They've  hit  me,"  said  Martin. 

"  Jesus !  "  said  Nolan. 


THE    PRICE   OF   THE    HARNESS  15 

Martin  lay  on  the  ground,  clutching  his  left  fore- 
arm just  below  the  elbow  with  all  the  strength  of 
his  right  hand.  His  lips  were  pursed  ruefully. 
He  did  not  seem  to  know  what  to  do.  He  con- 
tinued to  stare  at  his  arm. 

Then  suddenly  the  bullets  drove  at  them  low 
and  hard.  The  men  flung  themselves  face  down- 
ward in  the  grass.  Nolan  lost  all  thought  of  his 
friend.  Oddly  enough,  he  felt  somewhat  like  a  man 
hiding  under  a  bed,  and  he  was  just  as  sure  that 
he  could  not  raise  his  head  high  without  being 
shot  as  a  man  hiding  under  a  bed  is  sure  that  he 
cannot  raise  his  head  without  bumping  it. 

A  lieutenant  was  seated  in  the  grass  just  behind 
him.  He  was  in  the  careless  and  yet  rigid  pose 
of  a  man  balancing  a  loaded  plate  on  his  knee  at 
a  picnic.  He  was  talking  in  soothing  paternal 
tones. 

"  Now,  don't  get  rattled.  We're  all  right  here. 
Just  as  safe  as  being  in  church.  .  .  .  They're  all 
going  high.  Don't  mind  them.  .  .  .  Don't  mind 
them.  .  .  .  They*  re  all  going  high.  We've  got 
them  rattled  and  they  can't  shoot  straight.  Don't 
mind  them." 

The  sun  burned  down  steadily  from  a  pale  blue 
sky  upon  the  crackling  woods  and  knolls  and  fields. 
From  the  roar  of  musketry  it  might  have  been 


l6  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

that  the  celestial  heat  was  frying  this  part  of  the 
world. 

Nolan  snuggled  close  to  the  grass.  He  watched 
a  grey  line  of  intrenchments,  above  which  floated 
the  veriest  gossamer  of  smoke.  A  flag  lolled  on 
a  staff  behind  it.  The  men  in  the  trench  volleyed 
whenever  an  American  shell  exploded  near  them. 
It  was  some  kind  of  infantile  defiance.  Frequently 
a  bullet  came  from  the  woods  directly  behind 
Nolan  and  his  comrades.  They  thought  at  the 
time  that  these  bullets  were  from  the  rifle  of  some 
incompetent  soldier  of  their  own  side. 

There  was  no  cheering.  The  men  would  have 
looked  about  them,  wondering  where  was  the 
army,  if  it  were  not  that  the  crash  of  the  fighting 
for  the  distance  of  a  mile  denoted  plainly  enough 
where  was  the  army. 

Officially,  the  battalion  had  not  yet  fired  a  shot ; 
there  had  been  merely  some  irresponsible  popping 
by  men  on  the  extreme  left  flank.  But  it  was 
known  that  the  lieutenant-colonel  who  had  been 
in  command  was  dead — shot  through  the  heart — 
and  that  the  captains  were  thinned  down  to  two. 
At  the  rear  went  on  a  long  tragedy,  in  which  men, 
bent  and  hasty,  hurried  to  shelter  with  other  men, 
helpless,  dazed,  and  bloody.  Nolan  knew  of  it  all 
from  the  hoarse  and  affrighted  voices  which  he 


THE    PRICE   OF   THE    HARNESS  17 

heard  as  he  lay  flattened  in  the  grass.  There  came 
to  him  a  sense  of  exultation.  Here,  then,  was  one 
of  those  dread  and  lurid  situations,  which  in  a 
nation's  history  stand  out  in  crimson  letters,  be- 
coming a  tale  of  blood  to  stir  generation  after 
generation.  And  he  was  in  it,  and  unharmed.  If 
he  lived  through  the  battle,  he  would  be  a  hero  of 

the  desperate  fight  at ;  and  here  he  wondered 

for  a  second  what  fate  would  be  pleased  to  be- 
stow as  a  name  for  this  battle. 

But  it  is  quite  sure  that  hardly  another  man  in 
the  battalion  was  engaged  in  any  thoughts  con- 
cerning the  historic.  On  the  contrary,  they 
deemed  it  ill  that  they  were  being  badly  cut  up 
on  a  most  unimportant  occasion.  It  would  have 
benefited  the  conduct  of  whoever  were  weak  if 
they  had  known  that  they  were  engaged  in  a 
battle  that  would  be  famous  for  ever. 


IV 

Martin  had  picked  himself  up  from  where  the 
bullet  had  knocked  him  and  addressed  the  lieu- 
tenant. "  I'm  hit,  sir,"  he  said. 

The  lieutenant  was  very  busy.  "  All  right,  all 
right/'  he  said,  just  heeding  the  man  enough  to 


l8  WOUNDS   IN   THE   RAIN 

learn  where  he  was  wounded.  "  Go  over  that  way. 
You  ought  to  see  a  dressing-station  under  those 
trees." 

Martin  found  himself  dizzy  and  sick.  The  sen- 
sation in  his  arm  was  distinctly  galvanic.  The  feel- 
ing was  so  strange  that  he  could  wonder  at  times 
if  a  wound  was  really  what  ailed  him.  Once,  in 
this  dazed  way,  he  examined  his  arm  ;  he  saw  the 
hole.  Yes,  he  was  shot ;  that  was  it.  And  more 
than  in  any  other  way  it  affected  him  with  a  pro- 
found sadness. 

As  directed  by  the  lieutenant,  he  went  to  the 
clump  of  trees,  but  he  found  no  dressing-station 
there.  He  found  only  a  dead  soldier  lying  with 
his  face  buried  in  his  arms  and  with  his  shoulders 
humped  high  as  if  he  were  convulsively  sobbing. 
Martin  decided  to  make  his  way  to  the  road,  deem- 
ing that  he  thus  would  better  his  chances  of  get- 
ting to  a  surgeon.  But  he  suddenly  found  his 
way  blocked  by  a  fence  of  barbed  wire.  Such  was 
his  mental  condition  that  he  brought  up  at  a  rigid 
halt  before  this  fence,  and  stared  stupidly  at  it. 
It  did  not  seem  to  him  possible  that  this  obstacle 
could  be  defeated  by  any  means.  The  fence  was 
there,  and  it  stopped  his  progress.  He  could  not 
go  in  that  direction. 

But  as  he  turned  he  espied  that  procession  of 


THE    PRICE   OF   THE    HARNESS.  19 

wounded  men,  strange  pilgrims,  that  had  already 
worn  a  path  in  the  tall  grass.  They  were  passing 
through  a  gap  in  the  fence.  Martin  joined  them. 
The  bullets  were  flying  over  them  in  sheets,  but 
many  of  them  bore  themselves  as  men  who  had 
now  exacted  from  fate  a  singular  immunity.  Gen- 
erally there  were  no  outcries,  no  kicking,  no  talk 
at  all.  They  too,  like  Martin,  seemed  buried  in  a 
vague  but  profound  melancholy. 

But  there  was  one  who  cried  out  loudly.  A 
man  shot  in  the  head  was  being  carried  arduously 
by  four  comrades,  and  he  continually  yelled  one 
word  that  was  terrible  in  its  primitive  strength, — 
"Bread!  Bread!  Bread!"  Following  him  and 
his  bearers  were  a  limping  crowd  of  men  less 
cruelly  wounded,  who  kept  their  eyes  always  fixed 
on  him,  as  if  they  gained  from  his  extreme  agony 
some  balm  for  their  own  sufferings. 

"  Bread  !     Give  me  bread  !  " 

Martin  plucked  a  man  by  the  sleeve.  The  man 
had  been  shot  in  the  foot,  and  was  making  his  way 
with  the  help  of  a  curved,  incompetent  stick.  It 
is  an  axiom  of  war  that  wounded  men  can  never 
find  straight  sticks. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  that  feller?"  asked 
Martin. 

"  Nutty,"  said  the  man. 


20  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN. 

"Why  is  he?" 

"Shot  in  th'  head,"  answered  the  other,  im- 
patiently. 

The  wail  of  the  sufferer  arose  in  the  field  amid 
the  swift  rasp  of  bullets  and  the  boom  and  shatter 
of  shrapnel.  "  Bread  !  Bread !  Oh,  God,  can't 
you  give  me  bread  ?  Bread  !  "  The  bearers  of 
him  were  suffering  exquisite  agony,  and  often 
they  exchanged  glances  which  exhibited  their 
despair  of  ever  getting  free  of  this  tragedy.  It 
seemed  endless. 

"Bread!     Bread!     Bread!" 

But  despite  the  fact  that  there  was  always  in 
the  way  of  this  crowd  a  wistful  melancholy,  one 
must  know  that  there  were  plenty  of  men  who 
laughed,  laughed  at  their  wounds  whimsically, 
quaintly  inventing  odd  humours  concerning  bi- 
cycles and  cabs,  extracting  from  this  shedding  of 
their  blood  a  wonderful  amount  of  material  for 
cheerful  badinage,  and,  with  their  faces  twisted 
from  pain  as  they  stepped,  they  often  joked  like 
music-hall  stars.  And  perhaps  this  was  the  most 
tearful  part  of  all. 

They  trudged  along  a  road  until  they  reached  a 
ford.  Here  under  the  eave  of  the  bank  lay  a  dis- 
mal company.  In  the  mud  and  in  the  damp  shade 
of  some  bushes  were  a  half-hundred  pale-faced 


THE    PRICE   OF   THE    HARNESS.  21 

men  prostrate.  Two  or  three  surgeons  were  work- 
ing there.  Also,  there  was  a  chaplain,  grim- 
mouthed,  resolute,  his  surtout  discarded.  Over- 
head always  was  that  incessant  maddening  wail  of 
bullets. 

Martin  was  standing  gazing  drowsily  at  the 
scene  when  a  surgeon  grabbed  him.  "  Here,  what's 
the  matter  with  you  ? "  Martin  was  daunted. 
He  wondered  what  he  had  done  that  the  surgeon 
should  be  so  angry  with  him. 

"  In  the  arm,"  he  muttered,  half-shamefacedly. 
After  the  surgeon  had  hastily  and  irritably  ban- 
daged the  injured   member  he  glared  at  Martin 
and  said,  "  You  can  walk  all  right,  can't  you?" 
"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Martin. 

"Well,  now,  you  just  make  tracks  down  that 
road." 

"  Yes,  sir."  Martin  went  meekly  off.  The  doc- 
tor had  seemed  exasperated  almost  to  the  point  of 
madness. 

The  road  was  at  this  time  swept  with  the  fire  of 
a  body  of  Spanish  sharpshooters  who  had  come 
cunningly  around  the  flanks  of  the  American 
army,  and  were  now  hidden  in  the  dense  foliage 
that  lined  both  sides  of  the  road.  They  were 
shooting  at  everything.  The  road  was  as  crowded 
as  a  street  in  a  city,  and  at  an  absurdly  short  range 


22  WOUNDS   IN   THE   RAIN 

they  emptied  their  rifles  at  the  passing  people. 
They  were  aided  always  by  the  over-sweep  from 
the  regular  Spanish  line  of  battle. 

Martin  was  sleepy  from  his  wound.  He  saw 
tragedy  follow  tragedy,  but  they  created  in  him 
no  feeling  of  horror. 

A  man  with  a  red  cross  on  his  arm  was  leaning 
against  a  great  tree.  Suddenly  he  tumbled  to  the 
ground,  and  writhed  for  a  moment  in  the  way  of 
a  child  oppressed  with  colic.  A  comrade  imme- 
diately began  to  bustle  importantly.  "  Here,"  he 
called  to  Martin,  "  help  me  carry  this  man,  will 
you  ?  " 

Martin  looked  at  him  with  dull  scorn.  "  I'll  be 
damned  if  I  do,"  he  said.  "  Can't  carry  myself, 
let  alone  somebody  else." 

This  answer,  which  rings  now  so  inhuman, 
pitiless,  did  not  affect  the  other  man.  "  Well,  all 
right,"  he  said.  "  Here  comes  some  other  fellers." 
The  wounded  man  had  now  turned  blue-grey  ;  his 
eyes  were  closed  ;  his  body  shook  in  a  gentle,  per- 
sistent chill. 

Occasionally  Martin  came  upon  dead  horses, 
their  limbs  sticking  out  and  up  like  stakes.  One 
beast  mortally  shot,  was  besieged  by  three  or  four 
men  who  were  trying  to  push  it  into  the  bushes, 
where  it  could  live  its  brief  time  of  anguish  with- 


THE    PRICE  OF   THE    HARNESS  23 

out  thrashing  to  death  any  of  the  wounded  men 
in  the  gloomy  procession. 

The  mule  train,  with  extra  ammunition,  charged 
toward  the  front,  still  led  by  the  tinkling  bell- 
mare. 

An  ambulance  was  stuck  momentarily  in  the 
mud,  and  above  the  crack  of  battle  one  could 
hear  the  familiar  objurgations  of  the  driver  as  he 
whirled  his  lash. 

Two  privates  were  having  a  hard  time  with  a 
wounded  captain,  whom  they  were  supporting  to 
the  rear,  He  was  half  cursing,  half  wailing  out 
the  information  that  he  not  only  wrould  not  go 
another  step  toward  the  rear,  but  that  he  was 
certainly  going  to  return  at  once  to  the  fronL 
They  begged,  pleaded  at  great  length  as  they 
continually  headed  him  off.  They  were  not  un- 
like two  nurses  with  an  exceptionally  bad  and 
headstrong  little  duke. 

The  wounded  soldiers  paused  to  look  impas- 
sively upon  this  struggle.  They  were  always  like 
men  who  could  not  be  aroused  by  anything 
further. 

The  visible  hospital  was  mainly  straggling 
thickets  intersected  with  narrow  paths,  the 
ground  being  covered  with  men.  Martin  saw  a 
busy  person  with  a  book  and  a  pencil,  but  he  did 


24  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

not  approach  him  to  become  officially  a  member 
of  the  hospital.  All  he  desired  was  rest  and  im- 
munity from  nagging.  He  took  seat  painfully 
under  a  bush  and  leaned  his  back  upon  the  trunk. 
There  he  remained  thinking,  his  face  wooden. 


"  My  Gawd,"  said  Nolan,  squirming  on  his 
belly  in  the  grass,  "  I  can't  stand  this  much 
longer." 

Then  suddenly  every  rifle  in  the  firing  line 
seemed  to  go  off  of  its  own  accord.  It  was 
the  result  of  an  order,  but  few  men  heard  the 
order;  in  the  main  they  had  fired  because  they 
heard  others  fire,  and  their  sense  was  so  quick  that 
the  volley  did  not  sound  too  ragged.  These 
marksmen  had  been  lying  for  nearly  an  hour  in 
stony  silence,  their  sights  adjusted,  their  fingers 
fondling  their  rifles,  their  eyes  staring  at  the  in- 
trenchments  of  the  enemy.  The  battalion  had 
suffered  heavy  losses,  and  these  losses  had  been 
hard  to  bear,  for  a  soldier  always  reasons  that  men 
lost  during  a  period  of  inaction  are  men  badly 
lost. 

The   line    now   sounded   like  a  great  machine 


THE  PRICE   OF   THE    HARNESS  25 

set  to  running  frantically  in  the  open  air,  the 
bright  sunshine  of  a  green  field,  To  the  prut  of 
the  magazine  rifles  was  added  the  under-chorus  of 
the  clicking  mechanism,  steady  and  swift,  as  if  the 
hand  of  one  operator  was  controlling  it  all.  It 
reminds  one  always  of  a  loom,  a  great  grand  steel 
loom,  clinking,  clanking,  plunking,  plinking,  to 
weave  a  woof  of  thin  red  threads,  the  cloth  of 
death.  By  the  men's  shoulders  under  their  eager 
hands  dropped  continually  the  yellow  empty 
shells,  spinning  into  the  crushed  grass  blades  to 
remain  there  and  mark  for  the  belated  eye  the 
line  of  a  battalion's  fight. 

All  impatience,  all  rebellious  feeling,  had 
passed  out  of  the  men  as  soon  as  they  had  been 
allowed  to  use  their  weapons  against  the  enemy. 
They  now  were  absorbed  in  this  business  of  hit- 
ting something,  and  all  the  long  training  at  the 
rifle  ranges,  all  the  pride  of  the  marksman 
which  had  been  so  long  alive  in  them,  made  them 
forget  for  the  time  everything  but  shooting. 
They  were  as  deliberate  and  exact  as  so  many 
watchmakers. 

A  new  sense  of  safety  was  rightfully  upon 
them.  They  knew  that  those  mysterious  men  in 
the  high  far  trenches  in  front  were  having  the 
bullets  sping  in  their  faces  with  relentless  and 


26  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

remarkable  precision  ;  they  knew,  in  fact,  that  they 
were  now  doing  the  thing  which  they  had  been 
trained  endlessly  to  do,  and  they  knew  they  were 
doing  it  well.  Nolan,  for  instance,  was  overjoyed. 
"  Plug  'em,"  he  said  :  "  Plug  'em."  He  laid  his 
face  to  his  rifle  as  if  it  were  his  mistress.  He 
was  aiming  under  the  shadow  of  a  certain  portico 
of  a  fortified  house  :  there  he  could  faintly  see  a 
long  black  line  which  he  knew  to  be  a  loop-hole 
cut  for  riflemen,  and  he  knew  that  every  shot 
of  his  was  going  there  under  the  portico,  may- 
hap through  the  loop-hole  to  the  brain  of  an- 
other man  like  himself.  He  loaded  the  awkward 
magazine  of  his  rifle  again  and  again.  He  was 
so  intent  that  he  did  not  know  of  new  orders 
until  he  saw  the  men  about  him  scrambling  to 
their  feet  and  running  forward,  crouching  low  as 
they  ran. 

He  heard  a  shout.  "  Come  on,  boys !  We 
can't  be  last !  We're  going  up  !  We're  going 
up."  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and,  stooping,  ran  with 
the  others.  Something  fine,  soft,  gentle,  touched 
his  heart  as  he  ran.  He  had  loved  the  regiment. 
the  army,  because  the  regiment,  the  army,  was 
his  life, — he  had  no  other  outlook ;  and  now 
these  men,  his  comrades,  were  performing  his 
dream-scenes  for  him ;  they  were  doing  as  he  had 


THE    PRICE    OF   THE    HARNESS  27 

ordained  in  his  visions.  It  is  curious  that  in  this 
charge  he  considered  himself  as  rather  unworthy. 
Although  he  himself  was  in  the  assault  with  the 
rest  of  them,  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  com- 
rades were  dazzlingly  courageous.  His  part,  to 
his  mind,  was  merely  that  of  a  man  who  was 
going  along  with  the  crowd. 

He  saw  Grierson  biting  madly  with  his  pincers 
at  a  barbed-wire  fence.  They  were  half-way  up 
the  beautiful  sylvan  slope ;  there  was  no  enemy 
to  be  seen,  and  yet  the  landscape  rained  bullets. 
Somebody  punched  him  violently  in  the  stomach. 
He  thought  dully  to  lie  down  and  rest,  but  instead 
he  fell  with  a  crash. 

The  sparse  line  of  men  in  blue  shirts  and  dirty 
slouch  hats  swept  on  up  the  hill.  He  decided  to 
shut  his  eyes  for  a  moment  because  he  felt 
very  dreamy  and  peaceful.  It  seemed  only  a 
minute  before  he  heard  a  voice  say,  "  There  he 
is."  Grierson  and  Watkins  had  come  to  look  for 
him.  He  searched  their  faces  at  once  and  keenly, 
for  he  had  a  thought  that  the  line  might  be 
driven  down  the  hill  and  leave  him  in  Spanish 
hands.  But  he  saw  that  everything  was  secure, 
and  he  prepared  no  questions. 

"  Nolan,  "  said  Grierson  clumsily,  "  do  you 
know  me  ?  " 


28  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

The  man  on  the  ground  smiled  softly.  "  Of 
course  I  know  you,  you  chowder-faced  monkey. 
Why  wouldn't  I  know  you?" 

Watkins  knelt  beside  him.  "  Where  did  they 
plug  you,  old  boy  ?  " 

Nolan  was  somewhat  dubious.  "  It  ain't  much. 
I  don't  think  but  it's  somewheres  there."  He 
laid  a  finger  on  the  pit  of  his  stomach.  They 
lifted  his  shirt,  and  then  privately  they  exchanged 
a  glance  of  horror. 

"  Does  it  hurt,  Jimmie  ?"  said  Grierson,  hoarsely. 

"  No,"  said  Nolan,  "  it  don't  hurt  any,  but  I 
feel  sort  of  dead-to-the-world  and  numb  all  over. 
I  don't  think  it's  very  bad." 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right,"  said  Watkins. 

"  What  I  need  is  a  drink,"  said  Nolan,  grinning 
at  them.  "  I'm  chilly — lying  on  this  damp  ground." 

"It  ain't  very  damp,  Jimmie,"  said  Grierson. 

"  Well,  it  is  damp,"  said  Nolan,  with  sudden 
irritability.  "  I  can  feel  it.  I'm  wet,  I  tell  you — 
wet  through — just  from  lying  here." 

They  answered  hastily.  "  Yes,  that's  so,  Jim- 
mie. It  is  damp.  That's  so." 

"  Just  put  your  hand  under  my  back  and  see 
how  wet  the  ground  is,"  he  said. 

"  No,"  they  answered.  "  That's  all  right,  Jim- 
mie.  We  know  it's  wet." 


THE    PRICE   OF   THE    HARNESS  29 

"  Well,  put  your  hand  under  and  see,"  he  cried, 
stubbornly. 

"  Oh,  never  mind,  Jimmie." 

"  No,"  he  said,  in  a  temper.  "  See  for  your- 
self." Grierson  seemed  to  be  afraid  of  Nolan's 
agitation,  and  so  he  slipped  a  hand  under  the 
prostrate  man,  and  presently  withdrew  it  covered 
with  blood.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  hiding  his  hand 
carefully  from  Nolan's  eyes,  "  you  were  right, 
Jimmie." 

"  Of  course  I  was,"  said  Nolan,  contentedly 
closing  his  eyes.  "  This  hillside  holds  water  like 
a  swamp."  After  a  moment  he  said,  "  Guess  I 
ought  to  know.  I'm  flat  here  on  it,  and  you  fellers 
are  standing  up." 

He  did  not  know  he  was  dying.  He  thought 
he  was  holding  an  argument  on  the  condition  of 
the  turf. 


VI. 

"  Cover  his  face,"  said  Grierson,  in  a  low  and 
husky  voice  afterwards. 

"  What'll  I  cover  it  with?"  said  Watkins. 

They  looked  at  themselves.  They  stood  in  their 
shirts,  trousers,  leggings,  shoes ;  they  had  nothing. 


30  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

"  Oh,"  said  Grierson,  "  here's  his  hat."  He 
brought  it  and  laid  it  on  the  face  of  the  dead  man. 
They  stood  for  a  time.  It  was  apparent  that  they 
thought  it  essential  and  decent  to  say  or  do  some- 
thing. Finally  Watkins  said  in  a  broken  voice, 
"  Aw,  it's  a  dam  shame."  They  moved  slowly  off 
toward  the  firing  line. 

In  the  blue  gloom  of  evening,  in  one  of  the 
fever-tents,  the  two  rows  of  still  figures  became 
hideous,  charnel.  The  languid  movement  of  a 
hand  was  surrounded  with  spectral  mystery,  and 
the  occasional  painful  twisting  of  a  body  under  a 
blanket  was  terrifying,  as  if  dead  men  were  moving 
in  their  graves  under  the  sod.  A  heavy  odour  of 
sickness  and  medicine  hung  in  the  air. 

"  What  regiment  are  you  in  ?  "  said  a  feeble 
voice. 

"Twenty-ninth  Infantry,"  answered  another 
voice. 

"  Twenty-ninth  !  Why,  the  man  on  the  other 
side  of  me  is  in  the  Twenty-ninth." 

"  He  is  ?  .  .  .  Hey,  there,  partner,  are  you  in 
the  Twenty-ninth?" 

A  third  voice  merely  answered  wearily.  "  Mar- 
tin  of  C  Company." 

"  What  ?     Jack,  is  that  you  ?  " 


THE    PRICE   OF   THE    HARNESS  3! 

"  It's  part  of  me.  .  .  .  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  Grierson,  you  fat-head.  I  thought  you  were 
wounded." 

There  was  the  noise  of  a  man  gulping  a  great 
drink  of  water,  and  at  its  conclusion  Martin  said, 
"  I  am." 

"  Well,  what  you  doin'  in  the  fever-place,  then  ?  " 

Martin  replied  with  drowsy  impatience.  "  Got 
the  fever  too.'* 

"  Gee  !  "  said  Grierson. 

Thereafter  there  was  silence  in  the  fever-tent, 
save  for  the  noise  made  by  a  man  over  in  a  cor- 
ner— a  kind  of  man  always  found  in  an  American 
crowd — a  heroic,  implacable  comedian  and  patriot, 
of  a  humour  that  has  bitterness  and  ferocity  and 
love  in  it,  and  he  was  wringing  from  the  situation 
a  grim  meaning  by  singing  the  "  Star-Spangled 
Banner  "  with  all  the  ardour  which  could  be  pro- 
cured from  his  fever-stricken  body. 

"  Billie,"  called  Martin  in  a  low  voice,  "  where's 
Jimmy  Nolan  ?  " 

"  He's  dead,"  said  Grierson. 

A  triangle  of  raw  gold  light  shone  on  a  side  of 
the  tent.  Somewhere  in  the  valley  an  engine's 
bell  was  ringing,  and  it  sounded  of  peace  and 
home  as  if  it  hung  on  a  cow's  neck. 

"  And  where's  Ike  Watkins  ?  " 


32  WOUNDS   IN   THE   RAIN 

"  Well,  he  ain't  dead,  but  he  got  shot  through 
the  lungs.  They  say  he  ain't  got  much  show." 

Through  the  clouded  odours  of  sickness  and 
medicine  rang  the  dauntless  voice  of  the  man  in 
the  corner. 


THE    LONE    CHARGE   OF   WILLIAM    B. 
PERKINS 

HE  could  not  distinguish  between  a  five-inch 
quick-firing  gun  and  a  nickle-plated  ice-pick,  and 
so,  naturally,  he  had  been  elected  to  fill  the  posi- 
tion of  war-correspondent.  The  responsible 
party  was  the  editor  of  the  "  Minnesota  Herald." 
Perkins  had  no  information  of  war,  and  no  par- 
ticular rapidity  of  mind  for  acquiring  it,  but  he 
had  that  rank  and  fibrous  quality  of  courage  which 
springs  from  the  thick  soil  of  Western  America. 

It  was  morning  in  Guantanamo  Bay.  If  the 
marines  encamped  on  the  hill  had  had  time  to 
turn  their  gaze  seaward,  they  might  have  seen  a 
small  newspaper  despatch-boat  wending  its  way 
toward  the  entrance  of  the  harbour  over  the  blue, 
sunlit  waters  of  the  Caribbean.  In  the  stern  of 
this  tug  Perkins  was  seated  upon  some  coal  bags, 
while  the  breeze  gently  ruffled  his  greasy  pajamas. 
He  was  staring  at  a  brown  line  of  entrenchments 
surmounted  by  a  flag,  which  was  Camp  McCalla. 
In  the  harbour  were  anchored  two  or  three 
3  33 


34  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

grim,  grey  cruisers  and  a  transport.  As  the  tug 
steamed  up  the  radiant  channel,  Perkins  could 
see  men  moving  on  shore  near  the  charred  ruins 
of  a  village.  Perkins  was  deeply  moved  ;  here 
already  was  more  war  than  he  had  ever  known 
in  Minnesota.  Presently  he,  clothed  in  the  essen- 
tial garments  of  a  war-correspondent,  was  rowed 
to  the  sandy  beach.  Marines  in  yellow  linen 
were  handling  an  ammunition  supply.  They 
paid  no  attention  to  the  visitor,  being  morose 
from  the  inconveniences  of  two  days  and  nights 
of  fighting.  Perkins  toiled  up  the  zigzag  path 
to  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  looked  with  eager  eyes 
at  the  trenches,  the  field-pieces,  the  funny  little 
Colts,  the  flag,  the  grim  marines  lying  wearily  on 
their  arms.  And  still  more,  he  looked  through 
the  clear  air  over  1,000  yards  of  mysterious  woods 
from  which  emanated  at  inopportune  times 
repeated  flocks  of  Mauser  bullets. 

Perkins  was  delighted.  He  was  filled  with  ad- 
miration for  these  jaded  and  smoky  men  who  lay 
so  quietly  in  the  trenches  waiting  for  a  resump- 
tion of  guerilla  enterprise.  But  he  wished  they 
would  heed  him.  He  wanted  to  talk  about  it. 
Save  for  sharp  inquiring  glances,  no  one  acknowl- 
edged his  existence. 

Finally  he  approached  two  young  lieutenants, 


LONE   CHARGE   OF   WILLIAM    B.  PERKINS     35 

and  in  his  innocent  Western  way  he  asked  them 
if  they  would  like  a  drink.  The  effect  on  the 
two  young  lieutenants  was  immediate  and  aston- 
ishing. With  one  voice  they  answered,  "  Yes, 
we  would."  Perkins  almost  wept  with  joy  at  this 
amiable  response,  and  he  exclaimed  that  he  would 
immediately  board  the  tug  and  bring  off  a  bottle 
of  Scotch.  This  attracted  the  officers,  and  in  a 
burst  of  confidence  one  explained  that  there  had 
not  been  a  drop  in  camp.  Perkins  lunged  down 
the  hill,  and  fled  to  his  boat,  where  in  his 
exuberance  he  engaged  in  a  preliminary  alterca- 
tion with  some  whisky.  Consequently  he  toiled 
again  up  the  hill  in  the  blasting  sun  with  his 
enthusiasm  in  no  ways  abated.  The  parched  offi- 
cers were  very  gracious,  and  such  was  the  state  of 
mind  of  Perkins  that  he  did  not  note  properly 
how  serious  and  solemn  was  his  engagement  with 
the  whisky.  And  because  of  this  fact,  and 
because  of  his  antecedents,  there  happened  the 
lone  charge  of  William  B.  Perkins. 

Now,  as  Perkins  went  down  the  hill,  something 
happened.  A  private  in  those  high  trenches 
found  that  a  cartridge  was  clogged  in  his  rifle. 
It  then  becomes  necessary  with  most  kinds  of 
rifles  to  explode  the  cartridge.  The  private  took 
the  rifle  to  his  captain,  and  explained  the  case. 


36  WOUNDS   IN   THE   RAIN 

But  it  would  not  do  in  that  camp  to  fire  a  rifle 
for  mechanical  purposes  and  without  warning, 
because  the  eloquent  sound  would  bring  six  hun- 
dred tired  marines  to  tension  and  high  expectancy. 
So  the  captain  turned,  and  in  a  loud  voice  an- 
nounced to  the  camp  that  he  found  it  necessary 
to  shoot  into  the  air.  The  communication  rang 
sharply  from  voice  to  voice.  Then  the  captain 
raised  the  weapon  and  fired.  Whereupon — and 
whereupon — a  large  line  of  guerillas  lying  in  the 
bushes  decided  swiftly  that  their  presence  and 
position  were  discovered,  and  swiftly  they 
volleyed. 

In  a  moment  the  woods  and  the  hills  were 
alive  with  the  crack  and  sputter  of  rifles.  Men 
on  the  warships  in  the  harbour  heard  the  old 
familiar  flut-flut-fluttery-fluttery-flut-flut-flut  from 
the  entrenchments.  Incidentally  the  launch  of 
the  "  Marblehead,"  commanded  by  one  of  our 
headlong  American  ensigns,  streaked  for  the 
strategic  woods  like  a  galloping  marine  dragoon, 
peppering  away  with  its  blunderbuss  in  the  bow. 

Perkins  had  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
where  began  the  arrangement  of  1 50  marines  that 
protected  the  short  line  of  communication  be- 
tween the  main  body  and  the  beach.  These  men 
had  all  swarmed  into  line  behind  fortifications 


LONE  CHARGE   OF   WILLIAM    B.  PERKINS   37 

improvised  from  the  boxes  of  provisions.  And 
to  them  were  gathering  naked  men  who  had  been 
bathing,  naked  men  who  arrayed  themselves 
speedily  in  cartridge  belts  and  rifles.  The  woods 
and  the  hills  went  flut-flut-flut-fluttery-fluttery- 
flut-fllllluttery-flut.  Under  the  boughs  of  a  beau- 
tiful tree  lay  five  wounded  men  thinking  vividly. 

And  now  it  befell  Perkins  to  discover  a  Span- 
iard in  the  bush.  The  distance  was  some  five 
hundred  yards.  In  a  loud  voice  he  announced 
his  perception.  He  also  declared  hoarsely,  that 
if  he  only  had  a  rifle,  he  would  go  and  possess 
himself  of  this  particular  enemy.  Immediately 
an  amiable  lad  shot  in  the  arm  said  :  "  Well, 
take  mine."  Perkins  thus  acquired  a  rifle  and  a 
clip  of  five  cartridges. 

"  Come  on  !  "  he  shouted.  This  part  of  the 
battalion  was  lying  very  tight,  not  yet  being  en- 
gaged, but  not  knowing  when  the  business  would 
swirl  around  to  them. 

To  Perkins  they  replied  with  a  roar.  "  Come 

back  here,  you fool.  Do  you  want  to  get 

shot  by  your  own  crowd  ?  Come  back, 

!  "  As  a  detail,  it  might  be  mentioned  that 

the  fire  from  a  part  of  the  hill  swept  the  journey 
upon  which  Perkins  had  started. 

Now  behold  the  solitary  Perkins  adrift  in  the 


38  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

storm  of  fighting,  even  as  a  champagne  jacket  of 
straw  is  lost  in  a  great  surf.  He  found  it  out 
quickly.  Four  seconds  elapsed  before  he  discov- 
ered that  he  was  an  almshouse  idiot  plunging 
through  hot,  crackling  thickets  on  a  June  morn- 
ing in  Cuba.  Sss-s-swing-sing-ing-pop  went  the 
lightning-swift  metal  grasshoppers  over  him  and 
beside  him.  The  beauties  of  rural  Minnesota 
illuminated  his  conscience  with  the  gold  of  lazy 
corn,  with  the  sleeping  green  of  meadows,  with 
the  cathedral  gloom  of  pine  forests.  Sshsh-swing- 
pop !  Perkins  decided  that  if  he  cared  to  extract 
himself  from  a  tangle  of  imbecility  he  must  shoot. 
The  entire  situation  was  that  he  must  shoot. 
It  was  necessary  that  he  should  shoot.  Nothing 
would  save  him  but  shooting.  It  is  a  law  that 
men  thus  decide  when  the  waters  of  battle  close 
over  their  minds.  So  with  a  prayer  that  the 
Americans  would  not  hit  him  in  the  back  nor  the 
left  side,  and  that  the  Spaniards  would  not  hit 
him  in  the  front,  he  knelt  like  a  supplicant  alone 
in  the  desert  of  chaparral,  and  emptied  his  maga- 
zine at  his  Spaniard  before  he  discovered  that  his 
Spaniard  was  a  bit  of  dried  palm  branch. 

Then  Perkins  flurried  like  a  fish.  His  reason 
for  being  was  a  Spaniard  in  the  bush.  When  the 
Spaniard  turned  into  a  dried  palm  branch,  he 


LONE    CHARGE    OF   WILLIAM    B.  PERKINS    39 

could  no  longer  furnish  himself  with  one  adequate 
reason. 

Then  did  he  dream  frantically  of  some  anthra- 
cite hiding-place,  some  profound  dungeon  of 
peace  where  blind  mules  live  placidly  chewing  the 
far-gathered  hay. 

"  Sss-swing-win-pop  !  Prut-prut-prrrut !  "  Then 
a  field-gun  spoke.  "  ^<?0?;z-ra-swow-ow-ow-ow- 
pum"  Then  a  Colt  automatic  began  to  bark. 
"  Crack-crk-crk-crk-crk-crk "  endlessly.  Raked, 
enfiladed,  flanked,  surrounded,  and  overwhelmed, 
what  hope  was  there  for  William  B.  Perkins  of 
the  "  Minnesota  Herald?  " 

But  war  is  a  spirit.  War  provides  for  those 
that  it  loves.  It  provides  sometimes  death  and 
sometimes  a  singular  and  incredible  safety.  There 
were  few  ways  in  which  it  was  possible  to  preserve 
Perkins.  One  way  was  by  means  of  a  steam- 
boiler. 

Perkins  espied  near  him  an  old,  rusty  steam- 
boiler  lying  in  the  bushes.  War  only  knows  how 
it  was  there,  but  there  it  was,  a  temple  shining 
resplendent  with  safety.  With  a  moan  of  haste, 
Perkins  flung  himself  through  that  hole  which 
expressed  the  absence  of  the  steam-pipe. 

Then  ensconced  in  his  boiler,  Perkins  comfort- 
ably listened  to  the  ring  of  a  fight  which  seemed 


40  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

to  be  in  the  air  above  him.  Sometimes  bullets 
struck  their  strong,  swift  blow  against  the  boiler's 
sides,  but  none  entered  to  interfere  with  Perkins's 
rest. 

Time  passed.  The  fight,  short  anyhow,  dwin- 
dled to  prut  .  .  .  prut  .  .  .  prut-prut  .  .  .  prut. 
And  when  the  silence  came,  Perkins  might  have 
been  seen  cautiously  protruding  from  the  boiler. 
Presently  he  strolled  back  toward  the  marine  lines 
with  his  hat  not  able  to  fit  his  head  for  the  new 
bumps  of  wisdom  that  were  on  it. 

The  marines,  with  an  annoyed  air,  were  settling 
down  again  when  an  apparitional  figure  came 
from  the  bushes.  There  was  great  excitement. 

"  It's  that  crazy  man,"  they  shouted,  and  as 
he  drew  near  they  gathered  tumultuously  about 
him  and  demanded  to  know  how  he  had  accomp- 
lished it. 

Perkins  made  a  gesture,  the  gesture  of  a  man 
escaping  from  an  unintentional  mud-bath,  the 
gesture  of  a  man  coming  out  of  battle,  and  then 
he  told  them. 

The  incredulity  was  immediate  and  general. 
"Yes,  you  did  !  What?  In  an  old  boiler?  An 
old  boiler  ?  Out  in  that  brush  ?  Well,  we  guess 
not."  They  did  not  believe  him  until  two  days 
later,  when  a  patrol  happened  to  find  the  rusty 


LONE   CHARGE   OF   WILLIAM    B.  PERKINS     41 

boiler,  relic  of  some  curious  transaction  in  the 
ruin  of  the  Cuban  sugar  industry.  The  patrol 
then  marvelled  at  the  truthfulness  of  war-corre- 
spondents until  they  were  almost  blind. 

Soon  after  his  adventure  Perkins  boarded  the 
tug,  wearing  a  countenance  of  poignant  thought- 
fulness. 


THE  CLAN   OF  NO-NAME 

Unwind  my  riddle. 

Cruel  as  hawks  the  hours  fly ; 

Wounded  men  seldom  come  home  to  die ; 

The  hard  waves  see  an  arm  flung  high ; 

Scorn  hits  strong  because  of  a  lie ; 

Yet  there  exists  a  mystic  tie. 

Unwind  my  riddle. 

SHE  was  out  in  the  garden.  Her  mother  came 
to  her  rapidly.  "  Margharita  !  Margharita,  Mister 
Smith  is  here  !  Come  !  "  Her  mother  was  fat 
and  commercially  excited.  Mister  Smith  was  a 
matter  of  some  importance  to  all  Tampa  people, 
and  since  he  was  really  in  love  with  Margharita 
he  was  distinctly  of  more  importance  to  this  par- 
ticular household. 

Palm  trees  tossed  their  sprays  over  the  fence 
toward  the  rutted  sand  of  the  street.  A  little 
foolish  fish-pond  in  the  centre  of  the  garden 
emitted  a  sound  of  red-fins  flipping,  flipping. 
"No,  mamma,"  said  the  girl,  "  let  Mr.  Smith  wait. 
I  like  the  garden  in  the  moonlight." 

Her  mother  threw  herself  into  that   state   of 
42 


THE   CLAN    OF   NO-NAME  43 

virtuous  astonishment  which  is  the  weapon  of  her 
kind.  "  Margharita !  " 

The  girl  evidently  considered  herself  to  be  a 
privileged  belle,  for  she  answered  quite  carelessly, 
"  Oh,  let  him  wait." 

The  mother  threw  abroad  her  arms  with  a  sem- 
blance of  great  high-minded  suffering  and  with- 
drew. Margharita  walked  alone  in  the  moonlit 
garden.  Also  an  electric  light  threw  its  shivering 
gleam  over  part  of  her  parade. 

There  was  peace  for  a  time.  Then  suddenly 
through  the  faint  brown  palings  was  struck  an 
envelope  white  and  square.  Margharita  ap- 
proached this  envelope  with  an  indifferent  stride. 
She  hummed  a  silly  air,  she  bore  herself  casually, 
but  there  was  something  that  made  her  grasp  it 
hard,  a  peculiar  muscular  exhibition,  not  discern- 
ible to  indifferent  eyes.  She  did  not  clutch  it, 
but  she  took  it — simply  took  it  in  a  way  that 
meant  everything,  and,  to  measure  it  by  vision,  it 
was  a  picture  of  the  most  complete  disregard. 

She  stood  straight  for  a  moment ;  then  she 
drew  from  her  bosom  a  photograph  and  thrust  it 
through  the  palings.  She  walked  rapidly  into  the 
house. 


44  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 


II 

A  man  in  garb  of  blue  and  white — something 
relating  to  what  we  call  bed-ticking — was  seated 
in  a  curious  little  cupola  on  the  top  of  a  Spanish 
blockhouse.  The  blockhouse  sided  a  white 
military  road  that  curved  away  from  the  man's 
sight  into  a  blur  of  trees.  On  all  sides  of  him 
were  fields  of  tall  grass,  studded  with  palms  and 
lined  with  fences  of  barbed  wire.  The  sun  beat 
aslant  through  the  trees  and  the  man  sped  his 
eyes  deep  into  the  dark  tropical  shadows  that 
seemed  velvet  with  coolness.  These  tranquil 
vistas  resembled  painted  scenery  in  a  theatre, 
and,  moreover,  a  hot,  heavy  silence  lay  upon  the 
land. 

The  soldier  in  the  watching  place  leaned  an 
unclean  Mauser  rifle  in  a  corner,  and,  reaching 
down,  took  a  glowing  coal  on  a  bit  of  palm  bark 
handed  up  to  him  by  a  comrade.  The  men  below 
were  mainly  asleep.  The  sergeant  in  command 
drowsed  near  the  open  door,  the  arm  above  his 
head,  showing  his  long  keen-angled  chevrons  at- 
tached carelessly  with  safety-pins.  The  sentry 
lit  his  cigarette  and  puffed  languorously. 


THE    CLAN    OF   NO-NAME  45 

Suddenly  he  heard  from  the  air  around  him  the 
querulous,  deadly-swift  spit  of  rifle-bullets,  and, 
an  instant  later,  the  poppety-pop  of  a  small  volley 
sounded  in  his  face,  close,  as  if  it  were  fired  only 
ten  feet  away.  Involuntarily  he  threw  back  his 
head  quickly  as  if  he  were  protecting  his  nose 
from  a  falling  tile.  He  screamed  an  alarm 
and  fell  into  the  blockhouse.  In  the  gloom  of 
it,  men  with  their  breaths  coming  sharply  between 
their  teeth,  were  tumbling  wildly  for  positions  at 
the  loop-holes.  The  door  had  been  slammed,  but 
the  sergeant  lay  just  within,  propped  up  as  when 
he  drowsed,  but  now  with  blood  flowing  steadily 
over  the  hand  that  he  pressed  flatly  to  his  chest. 
His  face  was  in  stark  yellow  agony ;  he  chokingly 
repeated  :  "  Fuego  !  For  Dios,  hombres  !  " 

The  men's  ill-conditioned  weapons  were  jammed 
through  the  loop-holes  and  they  began  to  fire 
from  all  four  sides  of  the  blockhouse  from  the 
simple  data,  apparently, '  that  the  enemy  were  in 
the  vicinity.  The  fumes  of  burnt  powder  grew 
stronger  and  stronger  in  the  little  square  fortress. 
The  rattling  of  the  magazine  locks  was  incessant, 
and  the  interior  might  have  been  that  of  a  gloomy 
manufactory  if  it  were  not  for  the  sergeant  down 
under  the  feet  of  the  men,  coughing  out :  "  For 
Dios,  hombres  !  Per  Dios  !  Fuego  !  " 


46  WOUNDS   IN   THE   RAIN 


III 

A  string  of  five  Cubans,  in  linen  that  had 
turned  earthy  brown  in  colour,  slid  through  the 
woods  at  a  pace  that  was  neither  a  walk  nor  a  run. 
It  was  a  kind  of  rack.  In  fact  the  whole  man- 
ner of  the  men,  as  they  thus  moved,  bore  a  rather 
comic  resemblance  to  the  American  pacing  horse. 
But  they  had  come  many  miles  since  sun-up  over 
mountainous  and  half-marked  paths,  and  were 
plainly  still  fresh.  The  men  were  all  practices — 
guides.  They  made  no  sound  in  their  swift  travel, 
but  moved  their  half-shod  feet  with  the  skill  of 
cats.  The  woods  lay  around  them  in  a  deep 
silence,  such  as  one  might  find  at  the  bottom  of  a 
lake. 

Suddenly  the  leading  practice  raised  his  hand. 
The  others  pulled  up  short  and  dropped  the  butts 
of  their  weapons  calmly  and  noiselessly  to  the 
ground.  The  leader  whistled  a  low  note  and  im- 
mediately another  practice  appeared  from  the 
bushes.  He  moved  close  to  the  leader  without  a 
word,  and  then  they  spoke  in  whispers. 

"  There  are  twenty  men  and  a  sergeant  in  the 
blockhouse." 


THE    CLAN   OF    NO-NAME  47 

"And  the  road  ?" 

"  One  company  of  cavalry  passed  to  the  east 
this  morning  at  seven  o'clock.  They  were  escort- 
ing four  carts.  An  hour  later,  one  horseman  rode 
swiftly  to  the  westward.  About  noon,  ten  in- 
fantry soldiers  with  a  corporal  were  taken  from 
the  big  fort  and  put  in  the  first  blockhouse,  to  the 
east  of  the  fort.  There  were  already  twelve  men 
there.  We  saw  a  Spanish  column  moving  off  to- 
ward Mariel." 

"  No  more  ?  " 

"  No  more." 

"  Good.     But  the  cavalry  ?  " 

"  It  is  all  right.    They  were  going  a  long  march." 

"The  expedition  is  a  half  league  behind.  Go 
and  tell  the  general." 

The  scout  disappeared.  The  five  other  men 
lifted  their  guns  and  resumed  their  rapid  and  noise- 
less progress.  A  moment  later  no  sound  broke 
the  stillness  save  the  thump  of  a  mango,  as  it 
dropped  lazily  from  its  tree  to  the  grass.  So 
strange  had  been  the  apparition  of  these  men,  their 
dress  had  been  so  allied  in  colour  to  the  soil,  their 
passing  had  so  little  disturbed  the  solemn  rumina- 
tion of  the  forest,  and  their  going  had  been  so  like 
a  spectral  dissolution,  that  a  witness  could  have 
wondered  if  he  dreamed. 


48  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 


IV 


A  small  expedition  had  landed  with  arms  from 
the  United  States,  and  had  now  come  out  of  the 
hills  and  to  the  edge  of  a  wood.  Before  them 
was  a  long-grassed  rolling  prairie  marked  with 
palms.  A  half-mile  away  was  the  military  road, 
and  they  could  see  the  top  of  a  blockhouse.  The 
insurgent  scouts  were  moving  somewhere  off  in 
the  grass.  The  general  sat  comfortably  under  a 
tree,  while  his  staff  of  three  young  officers  stood 
about  him  chatting.  Their  linen  clothing  was 
notable  from  being  distinctly  whiter  than  those  of 
the  men  who,  one  hundred  and  fifty  in  number, 
lay  on  the  ground  in  a  long  brown  fringe,  ragged 
— indeed,  bare  in  many  places — but  singularly 
reposeful,  unworried,  veteran-like. 

The  general,  however,  was  thoughtful.  He 
pulled  continually  at  his  little  thin  moustache. 
As  far  as  the  heavily  patrolled  and  guarded  mili- 
tary road  was  concerned,  the  insurgents  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  dashing  across  it  in  small  bodies 
whenever  they  pleased,  but  to  safely  scoot  over  it 
with  a  valuable  convoy  of  arms,  was  decidedly  a 
more  important  thing.  So  the  general  awaited 


THE   CLAN    OF   NO-NAME  49 

the  return  of  his  practices  with  anxiety.  The 
still  pampas  betrayed  no  sign  of  their  existence. 

The  general  gave  some  orders  and  an  officer 
counted  off  twenty  men  to  go  with  him,  and  delay 
any  attempt  of  the  troop  of  cavalry  to  return  from 
the  eastward.  It  was  not  an  easy  task,  but  it  was 
a  familiar  task — checking  the  advance  of  a  greatly 
superior  force  by  a  very  hard  fire  from  conceal- 
ment. A  few  rifles  had  often  bayed  a  strong 
column  for  sufficient  length  of  time  for  all  stra- 
tegic purposes.  The  twenty  men  pulled  them- 
selves together  tranquilly.  They  looked  quite 
indifferent.  Indeed,  they  had  the  supremely  cas- 
ual manner  of  old  soldiers,  hardened  to  battle  as 
a  condition  of  existence. 

Thirty  men  were  then  told  off,  whose  function 
it  was  to  worry  and  rag  at  the  blockhouse,  and 
check  any  advance  from  the  westward.  A  hun- 
dred men,  carrying  precious  burdens — besides 
their  own  equipment — were  to  pass  in  as  much  of 
a  rush  as  possible  between  these  two  wings,  cross 
the  road  and  skip  for  the  hills,  their  retreat  being 
covered  by  a  combination  of  the  two  firing  parties. 
It  was  a  trick  that  needed  both  luck  and  neat  ar- 
rangement. Spanish  columns  were  for  ever  prowl- 
ing through  this  province  in  all  directions  and  at 

all  times.     Insurgent  bands — the  lightest  of  light 
4 


SO  WOUNDS   IN    THE    RAIN 

infantry — were  kept  on  the  jump,  even  when 
they  were  not  incommoded  by  fifty  boxes,  each 
one  large  enough  for  the  coffin  of  a  little  man, 
and  heavier  than  if  the  little  man  were  in  it ;  and 
fifty  small  but  formidable  boxes  of  ammunition. 

The  carriers  stood  to  their  boxes  and  the  firing 
parties  leaned  on  their  rifles.  The  general  arose 
and  strolled  to  and  fro,  his  hands  behind  him. 
Two  of  his  staff  were  jesting  at  the  third,  a  young 
man  with  a  face  less  bronzed,  and  with  very  new 
accoutrements.  On  the  strap  of  his  cartouche 
were  a  gold  star  and  a  silver  star,  placed  in  a  hor- 
izontal line,  denoting  that  he  was  a  second  lieu- 
tenant. He  seemed  very  happy  ;  he  laughed  at 
all  their  jests,  although  his  eye  roved  continually 
over  the  sunny  grass-lands,  where  was  going  to 
happen  his  first  fight.  One  of  his  stars  was  bright, 
like  his  hopes,  the  other  was  pale,  like  death. 

Two  practicos  came  racking  out  of  the  grass. 
They  spoke  rapidly  to  the  general ;  he  turned  and 
nodded  to  his  officers.  The  two  firing  parties 
filed  out  and  diverged  toward  their  positions. 
The  general  watched  them  through  his  glasses. 
It  was  strange  to  note  how  soon  they  were  dim  to 
the  unaided  eye.  The  little  patches  of  brown  in 
the  green  grass  did  not  look  like  men  at  all. 

Practicos  continually  ambled  up  to  the  general. 


THE   CLAN   OF   NO-NAME  51 

Finally  he  turned  and  made  a  sign  to  the  bearers 
The  first  twenty  men  in  line  picked  up  their  boxes, 
and  this  movement  rapidly  spread  to  the  tail  of 
the  line.  The  weighted  procession  moved  pain- 
fully out  upon  the  sunny  prairie.  The  general, 
marching  at  the  head  of  it,  glanced  continually 
back  as  if  he  were  compelled  to  drag  behind  him 
some  ponderous  iron  chain.  Besides  the  obvious 
mental  worry,  his  face  bore  an  expression  of  in- 
tense physical  strain,  and  he  even  bent  his  shoul- 
ders, unconsciously  tugging  at  the  chain  to  hurry 
it  through  this  enemy-crowded  valley. 


The  fight  was  opened  by  eight  men  who,  snug- 
gling in  the  grass,  within  three  hundred  yards  of 
the  blockhouse,  suddenly  blazed  away  at  the  bed- 
ticking  figure  in  the  cupola  and  at  the  open  door 
where  they  could  see  vague  outlines.  Then  they 
laughed  and  yelled  insulting  language,  for  they 
knew  that  as  far  as  the  Spaniards  were  concerned, 
the  surprise  was  as  much  as  having  a  diamond 
bracelet  turn  to  soap.  It  was  this  volley  that 
smote  the  sergeant  and  caused  the  man  in  the 
cupola  to  scream  and  tumble  from  his  perch. 


52  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

The  eight  men,  as  well  as  all  other  insurgents 
within  fair  range,  had  chosen  good  positions  for 
lying  close,  and  for  a  time  they  let  the  blockhouse 
rage,  although  the  soldiers  therein  could  occasion- 
ally hear,  above  the  clamour  of  their  weapons,  shrill 
and  almost  wolfish  calls,  coming  from  men  whose 
lips  were  laid  against  the  ground.  But  it  is  not 
in  the  nature  of  them  of  Spanish  blood,  and  armed 
with  rifles,  to  long  endure  the  sight  of  anything  so 
tangible  as  an  enemy's  blockhouse  without  shoot- 
ing at  it — other  conditions  being  partly  favourable. 
Presently  the  steaming  soldiers  in  the  little  fort 
could  hear  the  sping  and  shiver  of  bullets  striking 
the  wood  that  guarded  their  bodies. 

A  perfectly  white  smoke  floated  up  over  each 
firing  Cuban,  the  penalty  of  the  Remington  rifle, 
but  about  the  blockhouse  there  was  only  the 
lightest  gossamer  of  blue.  The  blockhouse  stood 
always  for  some  big,  clumsy  and  rather  incompe- 
tent animal,  while  the  insurgents,  scattered  on  two 
sides  of  it,  were  little  enterprising  creatures  of  an- 
other species,  too  wise  to  come  too  near,  but  joy- 
ously raging  at  its  easiest  flanks  and  dirling  the 
lead  into  its  sides  in  a  way  to  make  it  fume,  and 
spit  and  rave  like  the  tom-cat  when  the  glad,  free- 
band  fox-hound  pups  catch  him  in  the  lane. 

The  men,  outlying  in  the  grass,  chuckled  deliri- 


THE   CLAN    OF    NO-NAME  53 

ously  at  the  fury  of  the  Spanish  fire.  They 
howled  opprobrium  to  encourage  the  Spaniards 
to  fire  more  ill-used,  incapable  bullets.  When- 
ever an  insurgent  was  about  to  fire,  he  ordinarily 
prefixed  the  affair  with  a  speech.  "  Do  you  want 
something  to  eat?  Yes?  All  right."  Bang! 
"  Eat  that."  The  more  common  expressions  of 
the  incredibly  foul  Spanish  tongue  were  trifles 
light  as  air  in  this  badinage,  which  was  shrieked 
out  from  the  grass  during  the  spin  of  bullets,  and 
the  dull  rattle  of  the  shooting. 

But  at  some  time  there  came  a  series  of  sounds 
from  the  east  that  began  in  a  few  disconnected 
pruts  and  ended  as  if  an  amateur  was  trying  to 
play  the  long  roll  upon  a  muffled  drum.  Those 
of  the  insurgents  in  the  blockhouse  attacking 
party,  who  had  neighbours  in  the  grass,  turned 
and  looked  at  them  seriously.  They  knew  what 
the  new  sound  meant.  It  meant  that  the  twenty 
men  who  had  gone  to  the  eastward  were  now  en- 
gaged. A  column  of  some  kind  was  approaching 
from  that  direction,  and  they  knew  by  the  clatter 
that  it  was  a  solemn  occasion. 

In  the  first  place,  they  were  now  on  the  wrong 
side  of  the  road.  They  were  obliged  to  cross  it 
to  rejoin  the  main  body,  provided  of  course  that 
the  main  body  succeeded  itself  in  crossing  it.  To 


54  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

accomplish  this,  the  party  at  the  blockhouse  would 
have  to  move  to  the  eastward,  until  out  of  sight 
or  good  range  of  the  maddened  little  fort.  But 
judging  from  the  heaviness  of  the  firing,  the  party 
of  twenty  who  protected  the  east  were  almost  sure 
to  be  driven  immediately  back.  Hence  travel  in 
that  direction  would  become  exceedingly  hazard- 
ous. Hence  a  man  looked  seriously  at  his  neigh- 
bour. It  might  easily  be  that  in  a  moment  they 
were  to  become  an  isolated  force  and  woefully  on 
the  wrong  side  of  the  road. 

Any  retreat  to  the  westward  was  absurd,  since 
primarily  they  would  have  to  widely  circle  the 
blockhouse,  and  more  than  that,  they  could  hear, 
even  now  in  that  direction,  Spanish  bugle  calling 
to  Spanish  bugle,  far  and  near,  until  one  would 
think  that  every  man  in  Cuba  was  a  trumpeter, 
and  had  come  forth  to  parade  his  talent. 


VI 

The  insurgent  general  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
road  gnawing  his  lips.  Occasionally,  he  stamped 
a  foot  and  beat  his  hands  passionately  together. 
The  carriers  were  streaming  past  him,  patient, 


THE   CLAN    OF   NO-NAME  55 

sweating  fellows,  bowed  under  their  burdens,  but 
they  could  not  move  fast  enough  for  him  when 
others  of  his  men  were  engaged  both  to  the  east 
and  to  the  west,  and  he,  too,  knew  from  the  sound 
that  those  to  the  east  were  in  a  sore  way.  More- 
over, he  could  hear  that  accursed  bugling,  bugling, 
bugling  in  the  west. 

He  turned  suddenly  to  the  new  lieutenant  who 
stood  behind  him,  pale  and  quiet.  "  Did  you  ever 
think  a  hundred  men  were  so  many  ?  "  he  cried, 
incensed  to  the  point  of  beating  them.  Then  he 
said  longingly  :  "  Oh,  for  a  half  an  hour  !  Or  even 
twenty  minutes !  " 

A  practice  racked  violently  up  from  the  east. 
It  is  characteristic  of  these  men  that,  although  they 
take  a  certain  roadster  gait  and  hold  it  for  ever, 
they  cannot  really  run,  sprint,  race.  "  Captain 
Rodriguez  is  attacked  by  two  hundred  men,  sefior, 
and  the  cavalry  is  behind  them.  He  wishes  to 
know " 

The  general  was  furious ;  he  pointed. 
"  Go !  Tell  Rodriguez  to  hold  his  place  for 
twenty  minutes,  even  if  he  leaves  every  man 
dead." 

The  practico  shambled  hastily  off. 

The  last  of  the  carriers  were  swarming  across 
the  road.  The  rifle-drumming  in  the  east  was 


56  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

swelling  out  and  out,  evidently  coming  slowly 
nearer.  The  general  bit  his  nails.  "  He  wheeled 
suddenly  upon  the  young  lieutenant.  "  Go  to 
Bas  at  the  blockhouse.  Tell  him  to  hold  the 
devil  himself  for  ten  minutes  and  then  bring  his 
men  out  of  that  place." 

The  long  line  of  bearers  was  crawling  like  a  dun 
worm  toward  the  safety  of  the  foot-hills.  High 
bullets  sang  a  faint  song  over  the  aide  as  he  saluted. 
The  bugles  had  in  the  west  ceased,  and  that  was 
more  ominous  than  bugling.  It  meant  that  the 
Spanish  troops  were  about  to  march,  or  perhaps 
that  they  had  marched. 

The  young  lieutenant  ran  along  the  road  until 
he  came  to  the  bend  which  marked  the  range  of 
sight  from  the  blockhouse.  He  drew  his  machete, 
his  stunning  new  machete,  and  hacked  feverishly 
at  the  barbed  wire  fence  which  lined  the  north 
side  of  the  road  at  that  point.  The  first  wire  was 
obdurate,  because  it  was  too  high  for  his  stroke, 
but  two  more  cut  like  candy,  and  he  stepped  over 
the  remaining  one,  tearing  his  trousers  in  passing 
on  the  lively  serpentine  ends  of  the  severed  wires. 
Once  out  in  the  field  and  bullets  seemed  to  know 
him  and  call  for  him  and  speak  their  wish  to  kill  him. 
But  he  ran  on,  because  it  was  his  duty,  and  because 
he  would  be  shamed  before  men  if  he  did  not  do 


THE   CLAN    OF   NO-NAME  57 

his  duty,  and  because  he  was  desolate  out  there 
all  alone  in  the  fields  with  death. 

A  man  running  in  this  manner  from  the  rear 
was  in  immensely  greater  danger  than  those  who 
lay  snug  and  close.  But  he  did  not  know  it.  He 
thought  because  he  was  five  hundred — four  hun- 
dred and  fifty — four  hundred  yards  away  from  the 
enemy  and  the  others  were  only  three  hundred 
yards  away  that  they  were  in  far  more  peril.  He 
ran  to  join  them  because  of  his  opinion.  He  did 
not  care  to  do  it,  but  he  thought  that  was  what 
men  of  his  kind  would  do  in  such  a  case.  There 
was  a  standard  and  he  must  follow  it,  obey  it,  be- 
cause it  was  a  monarch,  the  Prince  of  Conduct. 

A  bewildered  and  alarmed  face  raised  itself  from 
the  grass  and  a  voice  cried  to  him :  "  Drop, 
Manolo  !  Drop  !  Drop !  He  recognised  Bas  and 
flung  himself  to  the  earth  beside  him. 

"  Why,"  he  said  panting,  "  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

"Matter?"  said  Bas.  "You  are  one  of  the 
most  desperate  and  careless  officers  I  know.  When 
I  saw  you  coming  I  wouldn't  have  given  a  peseta 
for  your  life." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  the  young  aide.  Then  he  re- 
peated his  orders  rapidly.  But  he  was  hugely 
delighted.  He  knew  Bas  well ;  Bas  was  a  pupil 
of  Maceo ;  Bas  invariably  led  his  men  ;  he  never 


58  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

was  a  mere  spectator  of  their  battle ;  he  was 
known  for  it  throughout  the  western  end  of  the 
island.  The  new  officer  had  early  achieved  a  part 
of  his  ambition — to  be  called  a  brave  man  by 
established  brave  men. 

"  Well,  if  we  get  away  from  here  quickly  it  will 
be  better  for  us,"  said  Bas,  bitterly.  "  I've  lost 
six  men  killed,  and  more  wounded.  Rodriguez 
can't  hold  his  position  there,  and  in  a  little  time 
more  than  a  thousand  men  will  come  from  the 
other  direction." 

He  hissed  a  low  call,  and  later  the  young  aide 
saw  some  of  the  men  sneaking  off  with  the 
wounded,  lugging  them  on  their  backs  as  porters 
carry  sacks.  The  fire  from  the  blockhouse  -had 
become  a-weary,  and  as  the  insurgent  fire  also 
slackened,  Bas  and  the  young  lieutenant  lay  in 
the  weeds  listening  to  the  approach  of  the  eastern 
fight,  which  was  sliding  toward  them  like  a  door 
to  shut  them  off. 

Bas  groaned.  "  I  leave  my  dead.  Look  there." 
He  swung  his  hand  in  a  gesture  and  the  lieutenant 
looking  saw  a  corpse.  He  was  not  stricken  as  he 
expected ;  there  was  very  little  blood  ;  it  was  a 
mere  thing. 

"  Time  to  travel,"  said  Bas  suddenly.  His  im- 
perative hissing  brought  his  men  near  him  ;  there 


THE   CLAN    OF    NO-NAME  59 

were  a  few  hurried  questions  and  answers ;  then, 
characteristically,  the  men  turned  in  the  grass, 
lifted  their  rifles,  and  fired  a  last  volley  into  the 
blockhouse,  accompanying  it  with  their  shrill 
cries.  Scrambling  low  to  the  ground,  they  were 
off  in  a  winding  line  for  safety.  Breathing  hard, 
the  lieutenant  stumbled  his  way  forward.  Behind 
him  he  could  hear  the  men  calling  each  to  each : 
"  Segue !  Segue  !  Segue  !  Go  on  !  Get  out ! 
Git !  "  Everybody  understood  that  the  peril  of 
crossing  the  road  was  compounding  from  minute 
to  minute. 


VII 

When  they  reached  the  gap  through  which  the 
expedition  had  passed,  they  fled  out  upon  the 
road  like  scared  wild-fowl  tracking  along  a  sea- 
beach.  A  cloud  of  blue  figures  far  up  this  digni- 
fied shaded  avenue,  fired  at  once.  The  men  already 
had  begun  to  laugh  as  they  shied  one  by  one 
across  the  road.  "  Segue  !  Segue !  "  The  hard 
part  for  the  nerves  had  been  the  lack  of  informa- 
tion of  the  amount  of  danger.  Now  that  they 
could  see  it,  they  accounted  it  all  the  more  lightly 
for  their  previous  anxiety. 


60  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

Over  in  the  other  field,  Bas  and  the  young  lieu- 
tenant found  Rodriguez,  his  machete  in  one  hand, 
his  revolver  in  the  other,  smoky,  dirty,  sweating. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  when  he  saw  them 
and  pointed  disconsolately  to  .the  brown  thread 
of  carriers  moving  toward  the  foot-hills.  His 
own  men  were  crouched  in  line  just  in  front  of 
him  blazing  like  a  prairie  fire. 

Now  began  the  fight  of  a  scant  rear-guard  to 
hold  back  the  pressing  Spaniards  until  the  carriers 
could  reach  the  top  of  the  ridge,  a  mile  away. 
This  ridge  by  the  way  was  more  steep  than  any 
roof  ;  it  conformed,  more,  to  the  sides  of  a  French 
war-ship.  Trees  grew  vertically  from  it,  however, 
and  a  man  burdened  only  with  his  rifle  usually 
pulled  himself  wheezingly  up  in  a  sort  of  ladder- 
climbing  process,  grabbing  the  slim  trunks  above 
him.  How  the  loaded  carriers  were  to  conquer 
it  in  a  hurry,  no  one  knew.  Rodriguez  shrugged 
his  shoulders  as  one  who  would  say  with  philoso- 
phy, smiles,  tears,  courage  :  "  Isn't  this  a  mess !  " 

At  an  order,  the  men  scattered  back  for  four 
hundred  yards  with  the  rapidity  and  mystery  of 
a  handful  of  pebbles  flung  in  the  night.  They 
left  one  behind  who  cried  out,  but  it  was  now  a 
game  in  which  some  were  sure  to  be  left  behind  to 
cry  out. 


THE   CLAN    OF    NO-NAME  6l 

The  Spaniards  deployed  on  the  road  and  for 
twenty  minutes  remained  there  pouring  into  the 
field  such  a  fire  from  their  magazines  as  was 
hardly  heard  at  Gettysburg.  As  a  matter  of  truth 
the  insurgents  were  at  this  time  doing  very  little 
shooting,  being  chary  of  ammunition.  But  it  is 
possible  for  the  soldier  to  confuse  himself  with 
his  own  noise  and  undoubtedly  the  Spanish  troops 
thought  throughout  their  din  that  they  were  being 
fiercely  engaged.  Moreover,  a  firing-line — par- 
ticularly at  night  or  when  opposed  to  a  hidden 
foe — is  nothing  less  than  an  emotional  chord,  a 
chord  of  a  harp  that  sings  because  a  puff  of  air 
arrives  or  when  a  bit  of  down  touches  it.  This 
is  always  true  of  new  troops  or  stupid  troops  and 
these  troops  were  rather  stupid  troops.  But,  the 
way  in  which  they  mowed  the  verdure  in  the 
distance  was  a  sight  for  a  farmer. 

Presently  the  insurgents  slunk  back  to  another 
position  where  they  fired  enough  shots  to  stir 
again  the  Spaniards  into  an  opinion  that  they 
were  in  a  heavy  fight.  But  such  a  misconception 
could  only  endure  for  a  number  of  minutes. 
Presently  it  was  plain  that  the  Spaniards  were 
about  to  advance  and,  moreover,  word  was 
brought  to  Rodriguez  that  a  small  band  of  guer- 
illas were  already  making  an  attempt  to  worm 


62  WOUNDS   IN    THE    RAIN 

around  the  right  flank.  Rodriguez  cursed  de- 
spairingly ;  he  sent  both  Bas  and  the  young  lieu- 
tenant to  that  end  of  the  line  to  hold  the  men  to 
their  work  as  long  as  possible. 

In  reality  the  men  barely  needed  the  presence 
of  their  officers.  The  kind  of  fighting  left  prac- 
tically everything  to  the  discretion  of  the  indi- 
vidual and  they  arrived  at  concert  of  action 
mainly  because  of  the  equality  of  experience,  in 
the  wisdoms  of  bushwhacking. 

The  yells  of  the  guerillas  could  plainly  be  heard 
and  the  insurgents  answered  in  kind.  The  young 
lieutenant  found  desperate  work  on  the  right 
flank.  The  men  were  raving  mad  with  it,  bab- 
bling, tearful,  almost  frothing  at  the  mouth. 
Two  terrible  bloody  creatures  passed  him,  creep- 
ing on  all  fours,  and  one  in  a  whimper  was  calling 
upon  God,  his  mother,  and  a  saint.  The  guerillas, 
as  effectually  concealed  as  the  insurgents,  were 
driving  their  bullets  low  through  the  smoke  at 
sight  of  a  flame,  a  movement  of  the  grass  or 
sight  of  a  patch  of  dirty  brown  coat.  They  were 
no  column-o'-four  soldiers ;  they  were  as  slinky 
and  snaky  and  quick  as  so  many  Indians.  They 
were,  moreover,  native  Cubans  and  because  of 
their  treachery  to  the  one-star  flag,  they  never 
by  any  chance  received  quarter  if  they  fell  into 


THE   CLAN   OF   NO-NAME  63 

the  hands  of  the  insurgents.  Nor,  if  the  case 
was  reversed,  did  they  ever  give  quarter.  It  was 
life  and  life,  death  and  death  ;  there  was  no  mid- 
dle ground,  no  compromise.  If  a  man's  crowd 
was  rapidly  retreating  and  he  was  tumbled  over 
by  a  slight  hit,  he  should  curse  the  sacred  graves 
that  the  wound  was  not  through  the  precise  centre 
of  his  heart.  The  machete  is  a  fine  broad  blade  but 
it  is  not  so  nice  as  a  drilled  hole  in  the  chest ;  no 
man  wants  his  death-bed  to  be  a  shambles.  The 
men  fighting  on  the  insurgents'  right  knew  that  if 
they  fell  they  were  lost. 

On  the  extreme  right,  the  young  lieutenant 
found  five  men  in  a  little  saucer-like  hollow. 
Two  were  dead,  one  was  wounded  and  staring 
blankly  at  the  sky  and  two  were  emptying  hot 
rifles  furiously.  Some  of  the  guerillas  had 
snaked  into  positions  only  a  hundred  yards  away. 

The  young  man  rolled  in  among  the  men  in 
the  saucer.  He  could  hear  the  barking  of  the 
guerillas  and  the  screams  of  the  two  insurgents. 
The  rifles  were  popping  and  spitting  in  his  face, 
it  seemed,  while  the  whole  land  was  alive  with  a 
noise  of  rolling  and  drumming.  Men  could  have 
gone  drunken  in  all  this  flashing  and  flying  and 
snarling  and  din,  but  at  this  time  he  was  very 
deliberate.  He  knew  that  he  was  thrusting  him- 


64  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

self  into  a  trap  whose  door,  once  closed,  opened 
only  when  the  black  hand  knocked  and  every 
part  of  him  seemed  to  be  in  panic-stricken  revolt. 
But  something  controlled  him  ;  something  moved 
him  inexorably  in  one  direction ;  he  perfectly 
understood  but  he  was  only  sad,  sad  with  a  serene 
dignity,  with  the  countenance  of  a  mournful 
young  prince.  He  was  of  a  kind — that  seemed 
to  be  it — and  the  men  of  his  kind,  on  peak  or 
plain,  from  the  dark  northern  ice-fields  to  the  hot 
wet  jungles,  through  all  wine  and  want,  through 
all  lies  and  unfamiliar  truth,  dark  or  light,  the 
men  of  his  kind  were  governed  by  their  gods, 
and  each  man  knew  the  law  and  yet  could  not 
give  tongue  to  it,  but  it  was  the  law  and  if  the 
spirits  of  the  men  of  his  kind  were  all  sitting  in 
critical  judgment  upon  him  eyen  then  in  the  sky, 
he  could  not  have  bettered  his  conduct ;  he  needs 
must  obey  the  law  and  always  with  the  law  there 
is  only  one  way.  But  from  peak  and  plain,  from 
dark  northern  icefields  and  hot  wet  jungles, 
through  wine  and  want,  through  all  lies  and  un- 
familiar truth,  dark  or  light,  he  heard  breathed  to 
him  the  approval  and  the  benediction  of  his 
brethren. 

He  stooped  and  gently  took  a  dead  man's  rifle 
and   some  cartridges.     The  battle  was  hurrying, 


THE   CLAN   OF   NO-NAME  65 

hurrying,  hurrying,  but  he  was  in  no  haste.  His 
glance  caught  the  staring  eye  of  the  wounded 
soldier,  and  he  smiled  at  him  quietly.  The  man 
— simple  doomed  peasant — was  not  of  his  kind, 
but  the  law  on  fidelity  was  clear. 

He  thrust  a  cartridge  into  the  Remington  and 
crept  up  beside  the  two  unhurt  men.  Even  as  he 
did  so,  three  or  four  bullets  cut  so  close  to  him 
that  all  his  flesh  tingled.  He  fired  carefully  into 
the  smoke.  The  guerillas  were  certainly  not  now 
more  than  fifty  yards  away. 

He  raised  him  coolly  for  his  second  shot,  and 
almost  instantly  it  was  as  if  some  giant  had  struck 
him  in  the  chest  with  a  beam.  It  whirled  him  in 
a  great  spasm  back  into  the  saucer.  As  he  put 
his  two  hands  to  his  breast,  he  could  hear  the 
guerillas  screeching  exultantly,  every  throat  vomit- 
ing forth  all  the  infamy  of  a  language  prolific  in 
the  phrasing  of  infamy. 

One  of  the  other  men  came  rolling  slowly  down 
the  slope,  while  his  rifle  followed  him,  and,  strik- 
ing another  rifle,  clanged  out.  Almost  immedi- 
ately the  survivor  howled  and  fled  wildly.  A 
whole  volley  missed  him  and  then  one  or  more 
shots  caught  him  as  a  bird  is  caught  on  the  wing. 

The  young  lieutenant's  body  seemed  galvanised 
from  head  to  foot.  He  concluded  that  he  was 
5 


66  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

not  hurt  very  badly,  but  when  he  tried  to  move  he 
found  that  he  could  not  lift  his  hands  from  his 
breast.  He  had  turned  to  lead.  He  had  had  a 
plan  of  taking  a  photograph  from  his  pocket  and 
looking  at  it. 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  grass  at  the  edge  of  the 
saucer,  and  a  man  appeared  there,  looking  where 
lay  the  four  insurgents.  His  negro  face  was  not 
an  eminently  ferocious  one  in  its  lines,  but  now  it 
was  lit  with  an  illimitable  blood-greed.  He  and 
the  young  lieutenant  exchanged  a  singular  glance  ; 
then  he  came  stepping  eagerly  down.  The  young 
lieutenant  closed  his  eyes,  for  he  did  not  want  to 
see  the  flash  of  the  machete. 


VIII 

The  Spanish  colonel  was  in  a  rage,  and  yet  im- 
mensely proud  ;  immensely  proud,  and  yet  in  a 
rage  of  disappointment.  There  had  been  a  fight 
and  the  insurgents  had  retreated  leaving  their  dead, 
but  still  a  valuable  expedition  had  broken  through 
his  lines  and  escaped  to  the  mountains.  As  a 
matter  of  truth,  he  was  not  sure  whether  to  be 


THE   CLAN    OF    NO-NAME  6? 

wholly  delighted  or  wholly  angry,  for  well  he  knew 
that  the  importance  lay  not  so  much  in  the  truth- 
ful account  of  the  action  as  it  did  in  the  heroic 
prose  of  the  official  report,  and  in  the  fight  itself 
lay  material  for  a  purple  splendid  poem.  The  in- 
surgents had  run  away ;  no  one  could  deny  it  ;  it 
was  plain  even  to  whatever  privates  had  fired  with 
their  eyes  shut.  This  was  worth  a  loud  blow  and 
splutter.  However,  when  all  was  said  and  done, 
he  could  not  help  but  reflect  that  if  he  had  cap- 
tured this  expedition,  he  would  have  been  a  brig- 
adier-general, if  not  more. 

He  was  a  short,  heavy  man  with  a  beard,  who 
walked  in  a  manner  common  to  all  elderly  Spanish 
officers,  and  to  many  young  ones ;  that  is  to  say, 
he  walked  as  if  his  spine  was  a  stick  and  a  little 
longer  than  his  body  ;  as  if  he  suffered  from  some 
disease  of  the  backbone,  which  allowed  him  but 
scant  use  of  his  legs.  He  toddled  along  the  road, 
gesticulating  disdainfully  and  muttering :  "  Ca  ! 
Ca!  Ca!" 

He  berated  some  soldiers  for  an  immaterial 
thing,  and  as  he  approached  the  men  stepped  pre- 
cipitately back  as  if  he  were  a  fire-engine.  They 
were  most  of  them  young  fellows,  who  displayed, 
when  under  orders,  the  manner  of  so  many  faith- 
ful dogs.  At  present,  they  were  black,  tongue- 


68  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

hanging,  thirsty  boys,  bathed  in  the  nervous 
weariness  of  the  after-battle  time. 

Whatever  he  may  truly  have  been  in  character, 
the  colonel  closely  resembled  a  gluttonous  and 
libidinous  old  pig,  filled  from  head  to  foot  with 
the  pollution  of  a  sinful  life.  "  Ca  !  "  he  snarled, 
as  he  toddled.  "  Ca  !  Ca  !  "  The  soldiers  sa- 
luted as  they  backed  to  the  side  of  the  road.  The 
air  was  full  of  the  odour  of  burnt  rags.  Over  on 
the  prairie  guerillas  and  regulars  were  rummaging 
the  grass.  A  few  unimportant  shots  sounded 
from  near  the  base  of  the  hills. 

A  guerilla,  glad  with  plunder,  came  to  a  Spanish 
captain.  He  held  in  his  hand  a  photograph. 
"  Mira,  senor.  I  took  this  from  the  body  of  an 
officer  whom  I  killed  machete  to  machete." 

The  captain  shot  from  the  corner  of  his  eye  a 
cynical  glance  at  the  guerilla,  a  glance  which 
commented  upon  the  last  part  of  the  statement. 
"  M-m-m,"  he  said.  He  took  the  photograph  and 
gazed  with  a  slow  faint  smile,  the  smile  of  a 
man  who  knows  bloodshed  and  homes  and  love, 
at  the  face  of  a  girl.  He  turned  the  photograph 
presently,  and  on  the  back  of  it  was  written  :  "  One 
lesson  in  English  I  will  give  you — this  :  I  love 
you,  Margharita."  The  photograph  had  been 
taken  in  Tampa. 


THE   CLAN   OF  NO-NAME  69 

The  officer  was  silent  for  a  half-minute,  while 
his  face  still  wore  the  slow  faint  smile.  "  Pobre- 
cetto,"  he  murmured  finally,  with  a  philosophic 
sigh,  which  was  brother  to  a  shrug.  Without 
deigning  a  word  to  the  guerilla  he  thrust  the 
photograph  in  his  pocket  and  walked  away. 

High  over  the  green  earth,  in  the  dizzy  blue 
heights,  some  great  birds  were  slowly  circling  with 
down-turned  beaks. 


IX 

Margharita  was  in  the  gardens.  The  blue 
electric  rays  shone  through  the  plumes  of  the 
palm  and  shivered  in  feathery  images  on  the  walk. 
In  the  little  foolish  fish-pond  some  stalwart  fish 
was  apparently  bullying  the  others,  for  often  there 
sounded  a  frantic  splashing. 

Her  mother  came  to  her  rapidly.  "  Margha- 
rita !  Mister  Smith  is  here  !  Come  !  " 

" Oh,  is  he?"  cried  the  girl.  She  followed  her 
mother  to  the  house.  She  swept  into  the  little 
parlor  with  a  grand  air,  the  egotism  of  a  savage. 
Smith  had  heard  the  whirl  of  her  skirts  in  the 
hall,  and  his  heart,  as  usual,  thumped  hard  enough 
to  make  him  gasp.  Every  time  he  called,  he 


70  WOUNDS   IN   THE   RAIN 

would  sit  waiting  with  the  dull  fear  in  his  breast 
that  her  mother  would  enter  and  indifferently 
announce  that  she  had  gone  up  to  heaven  or  off 
to  New  York,  with  one  of  his  dream-rivals,  and 
he  would  never  see  her  again  in  this  wide  world. 
And  he  would  conjure  up  tricks  to  then  escape 
from  the  house  without  any  one  observing  his 
face  break  up  into  furrows.  It  was  part  of  his 
love  to  believe  in  the  absolute  treachery  of  his 
adored  one.  So  whenever  he  heard  the  whirl  of 
her  skirts  in  the  hall  he  felt  that  he  had  again 
leased  happiness  from  a  dark  fate. 

She  was  rosily  beaming  and  all  in  white. 
"  Why,  Mister  Smith,"  she  exclaimed,  as  if  he 
was  the  last  man  in  the  world  she  expected  to 
see. 

"  Good-evenin',"  he  said,  shaking  hands  nerv- 
ously. He  was  always  awkward  and  unlike  him- 
self, at  the  beginning  of  one  of  these  calls.  It 
took  him  some  time  to  get  into  form. 

She  posed  her  figure  in  operatic  style  on  a 
chair  before  him,  and  immediately  galloped  off  a 
mile  of  questions,  information  of  herself,  gossip 
and  general  outcries  which  left  him  no  obliga- 
tion, but  to  look  beamingly  intelligent  and  from 
time  to  time  say:  "Yes?"  His  personal  joy, 
however,  was  to  stare  at  her  beauty. 


THE   CLAN   OF   NO-NAME  7l 

When  she  stopped  and  wandered  as  if  uncer- 
tain which  way  to  talk,  there  was  a  minute  of 
silence,  which  each  of  them  had  been  educated 
to  feel  was  very  incorrect ;  very  incorrect  indeed. 
Polite  people  always  babbled  at  each  other  like 
two  brooks. 

He  knew  that  the  responsibility  was  upon  him, 
and,  although  his  mind  was  mainly  upon  the 
form  of  the  proposal  of  marriage  which  he  in- 
tended to  make  later,  it  was  necessary  that  he 
should  maintain  his  reputation  as  a  well-bred  man 
by  saying  something  at  once.  It  flashed  upon 
him  to  ask :  "  Won't  you  please  play  ?  "  But 
the  time  for  the  piano  ruse  was  not  yet ;  it  was 
too  early.  So  he  said  the  first  thing  that  came 
into  his  head :  "  Too  bad  about  young  Manolo 
Prat  being  killed  over  there  in  Cuba,  wasn't  it  ? 

"  Wasn't  it  a  pity  ?  "  she  answered. 

"  They  say  his  mother  is  heart-broken,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  They're  afraid  she's  goin'  to  die." 

"  And  wasn't  it  queer  that  we  didn't  hear  about 
it  for  almost  two  months  ?  " 

"  Well,  it's  no  use  tryin'  to  git  quick  news  from 
there." 

Presently  they  advanced  to  matters  more  per- 
sonal, and  she  used  upon  him  a  series  of  star-like 
glances  which  rumpled  him  at  once  to  squalid 


72  WOUNDS   IN   THE   RAIN 

slavery.  He  gloated  upon  her,  afraid,  afraid,  yet 
more  avaricious  than  a  thousand  misers.  She 
fully  comprehended ;  she  laughed  and  taunted 
him  with  her  eyes.  She  impressed  upon  him  that 
she  was  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  beautiful  beyond 
compare  but  impossible,  almost  impossible,  at 
least  very  difficult ;  then  again,  suddenly,  im- 
possible— impossible — impossible.  He  was  glum  ; 
he  would  never  dare  propose  to  this  radiance ;  it 
was  like  asking  to  be  pope. 

A  moment  later,  there  chimed  into  the  room 
something  that  he  knew  to  be  a  more  tender 
note.  The  girl  became  dreamy  as  she  looked  at 
him ;  her  voice  lowered  to  a  delicious  intimacy 
of  tone.  He  leaned  forward  ;  he  was  about  to 
outpour  his  bully-ragged  soul  in  fine  words, 
when — presto — she  was  the  most  casual  person 
he  had  ever  laid  eyes  upon,  and  was  asking 
him  about  the  route  of  the  proposed  trolley 
line. 

But  nothing  short  of  a  fire  could  stop  him  now. 
He  grabbed  her  hand.  "  Margharita,"  he  mur- 
mured gutturally,  "  I  want  you  to  marry  me." 

She  glared  at  him  in  the  most  perfect  lie  of 
astonishment.  "  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

He  arose,  and  she  thereupon  arose  also  and  fled 
back  a  step.  He  could  only  stammer  out  her 


THE   CLAN    OF   NO-NAME  73 

name.  And  thus  they  stood,  defying  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  dramatic  art. 

"  I  love  you,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  How — how  do  I  know  you  really — truly  love 
me?  "  she  said,  raising  her  eyes  timorously  to  his 
face  and  this  timorous  glance,  this  one  timorous 
glance,  made  him  the  superior  person  in  an  instant. 
He  went  forward  as  confident  as  a  grenadier,  and, 
taking  both  her  hands,  kissed  her. 

That  night  she  took  a  stained  photograph  from 
her  dressing-table  and  holding  it  over  the  candle 
burned  it  to  nothing,  her  red  lips  meanwhile 
parted  with  the  intentness  of  her  occupation.  On 
the  back  of  the  photograph  was  written  :  "  One 
lesson  in  English  I  will  give  you — this :  I  love 
you." 

For  the  word  is  clear  only  to  the  kind  who  on 
peak  or  plain,  from  dark  northern  ice-fields  to  the 
hot  wet  jungles,  through  all  wine  and  want, 
through  lies  and  unfamiliar  truth,  dark  or  light, 
are  governed  by  the  unknown  gods,  and  though 
each  man  knows  the  law,  no  man  may  give  tongue 
to  it. 


GOD  REST  YE,  MERRY  GENTLEMEN 

LITTLE  NELL,  sometimes  called  the  Blessed 
Damosel,  was  a  war  correspondent  for  the  New 
York  Eclipse,  and  at  sea  on  the  despatch  boats 
he  wore  pajamas,  and  on  shore  he  wore  whatever 
fate  allowed  him,  which  clothing  was  in  the  main 
unsuitable  to  the  climate.  He  had  been  cruising 
in  the  Caribbean  on  a  small  tug,  awash  always, 
habitable  never,  wildly  looking  for  Cervera's  fleet ; 
although  what  he  was  going  to  do  with  four 
armoured  cruisers  and  two  destroyers  in  the  event 
of  his  really  finding  them  had  not  been  explained 
by  the  managing  editor.  The  cable  instructions 
read: — 'Take  tug;  go  find  Cervera's  fleet."  If 
his  unfortunate  nine-knot  craft  should  happen  to 
find  these  great  twenty-knot  ships,  with  their  two 
spiteful  and  faster  attendants,  Little  Nell  had 
wondered  how  he  was  going  to  lose  them  again. 
He  had  marvelled,  both  publicly  and  in  secret,  on 
the  uncompromising  asininity  of  managing  editors 
at  odd  moments,  but  he  had  wasted  little  time. 
The  Jefferson  G.  Johnson  was  already  coaled,  so 
he  passed  the  word  to  his  skipper,  bought  some 
74 


GOD    REST   YE,  MERRY   GENTLEMEN       75 

tinned  meats,  cigars,  and  beer,  and  soon  the  *  John- 
son sailed  on  her  mission,  tooting  her  whistle  in 
graceful  farewell  to  some  friends  of  hers  in  the 
bay. 

So  the  Johnson  crawled  giddily  to  one  wave- 
height  after  another,  and  fell,  aslant,  into  one 
valley  after  another  for  a  longer  period  than  was 
good  for  the  hearts  of  the  men,  because  the  John- 
son was  merely  a  harbour-tug,  with  no  architectural 
intention  of  parading  the  high-seas,  and  the  crew 
had  never  seen  the  decks  all  white  water  like  a 
mere  sunken  reef.  As  for  the  cook,  he  blas- 
phemed hopelessly  hour  in  and  hour  out,  mean- 
while pursuing  the  equipment  of  his  trade  frantic- 
ally from  side  to  side  of  the  galley.  Little  Nell 
dealt  with  a  great  deal  of  grumbling,  but  he  knew 
it  was  not  the  real  evil  grumbling.  It  was  merely 
the  unhappy  words  of  men  who  wished  expression 
of  comradeship  for  their  wet,  forlorn,  half-starved 
lives,  to  which,  they  explained,  they  were  not  ac- 
customed, and  for  which,  they  explained,  they 
were  not  properly  paid.  Little  Nell  condoled 
and  condoled  without  difficulty.  He  laid  words 
of  gentle  sympathy  before  them,  and  smothered 
his  own  misery  behind  the  face  of  a  reporter  of 
the  New  York  Eclipse.  But  they  tossed  them- 
selves in  their  cockleshell  even  as  far  as  Mar- 


76  WOUNDS   IN    THE    RAIN 

tinique ;  they  knew  many  races  and  many  flags, 
but  they  did  not  find  Cervera's  fleet.  If  they  had 
found  that  elusive  squadron  this  timid  story  would 
never  have  been  written ;  there  would  probably 
have  been  a  lyric.  The  Johnson  limped  one  morn- 
ing into  the  Mole  St.  Nicholas,  and  there  Little 
Nell  received  this  despatch  : — "  Can't  understand 
your  inaction.  What  are  you  doing  with  the 
boat?  Report  immediately.  Fleet  transports 
already  left  Tampa,  Expected  destination  near 
Santiago.  Proceed  there  immediately.  Place 
yourself  under  orders. — ROGERS,  Eclipse." 

One  day,  steaming  along  the  high,  luminous 
blue  coast  of  Santiago  province,  they  fetched  into 
view  the  fleets,  a  knot  of  masts  and  funnels,  look- 
ing incredibly  inshore,  as  if  they  were  glued  to 
the  mountains.  Then  mast  left  mast,  and  funnel 
left  funnel,  slowly,  slowly,  and  the  shore  remained 
still,  but  the  fleets  seemed  to  move  out  toward 
the  eager  Johnson.  At  the  speed  of  nine  knots 
an  hour  the  scene  separated  into  its  parts.  On 
an  easily  rolling  sea,  under  a  crystal  sky,  black- 
hulled  transports — erstwhile  packets — lay  waiting, 
while  grey  cruisers  and  gunboats  lay  near  shore, 
shelling  the  beach  and  some  woods.  From  their 
grey  sides  came  thin  red  flashes,  belches  of  white 
smoke,  and  then  over  the  waters  sounded  boom— 


GOD  REST  YE,  MERRY  GENTLEMEN   77 

boom — boom-boom.  The  crew  of  the  Jefferson 
G.  Johnson  forgave  Little  Nell  all  the  suffering  of 
a  previous  fortnight. 

To  the  westward,  about  the  mouth  of  Santiago 
harbour,  sat  a  row  of  castellated  grey  battleships, 
their  eyes  turned  another  way,  waiting. 

The  Johnson  swung  past  a  transport  whose 
decks  and  rigging  were  aswarm  with  black  figures, 
as  if  a  tribe  of  bees  had  alighted  upon  a  log.  She 
swung  past  a  cruiser  indignant  at  being  left  out 
of  the  game,  her  deck  thick  with  white-clothed 
tars  watching  the  play  of  their  luckier  brethren. 
The  cold  blue,  lifting  seas  tilted  the  big  ships 
easily,  slowly,  and  heaved  the  little  ones  in  the 
usual  sinful  way,  as  if  very  little  babes  had  sur- 
reptitiously mounted  sixteen-hand  trotting  hunters. 
The  Johnson  leered  and  tumbled  her  way  through 
a  community  of  ships.  The  bombardment  ceased, 
and  some  of  the  troopships  edged  in  near  the  land. 
Soon  boats  black  with  men  and  towed  by  launches 
were  almost  lost  to  view  in  the  scintillant  mystery 
of  light  which  appeared  where  the  sea  met  the 
land.  A  disembarkation  had  begun.  The  John- 
son sped  on  at  her  nine  knots,  and  Little  Nell 
chafed  exceedingly,  gloating  upon  the  shore 
through  his  glasses,  anon  glancing  irritably  over 
the  side  to  note  the  efforts  of  the  excited  tug. 


78  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

Then  at  last  they  were  in  a  sort  of  a  cove,  with 
troopships,  newspaper  boats,  and  cruisers  on  all 
sides  of  them,  and  over  the  water  came  a  great 
hum  of  human  voices,  punctuated  frequently  by 
the  clang  of  engine-room  gongs  as  the  steamers 
manoeuvred  to  avoid  jostling. 

In  reality  it  was  the  great  moment — the  moment 
for  which  men,  ships,  islands,  and  continents  had 
been  waiting  for  months  ;  but  somehow  it  did  not 
look  it.  It  was  very  calm  ;  a  certain  strip  of  high, 
green,  rocky  shore  was  being  rapidly  populated 
from  boat  after  boat ;  that  was  all.  Like  many 
preconceived  moments,  it  refused  to  be  supreme. 

But  nothing  lessened  Little  Nell's  frenzy.  He 
knew  that  the  army  was  landing — he  could 
see  it ;  and  little  did  he  care  if  the  great  moment 
did  not  look  its  part — it  was  his  virtue  as  a  cor- 
respondent to  recognise  the  great  moment  in  any 
disguise.  The  Johnson  lowered  a  boat  for  him, 
and  he  dropped  into  it  swiftly,  forgetting  every- 
thing. However,  the  mate,  a  bearded  philan- 
thropist, flung  after  him  a  mackintosh  and  a  bottle 
of  whisky.  Little  Nell's  face  was  turned  toward 
those  other  boats  filled  with  men,  all  eyes  upon 
the  placid,  gentle,  noiseless  shore.  Little  Nell  saw 
many  soldiers  seated  stiffly  beside  upright  rifle 
barrels,  their  blue  breasts  crossed  with  white  shel- 


GOD  REST  YE,  MERRY  GENTLEMEN   79 

ter  tent  and  blanket-rolls.  Launches  screeched ; 
jack-tars  pushed  or  pulled  with  their  boathooks ; 
a  beach  was  alive  with  working  soldiers,  some  of 
them  stark  naked.  Little  Nell's  boat  touched  the 
shore  amid  a  babble  of  tongues,  dominated  at  that 
time  by  a  single  stern  voice,  which  was  repeating, 
"  Fall  in,  B  Company !  " 

He  took  his  mackintosh  and  his  bottle  of  whisky 
and  invaded  Cuba.  It  was  a  trifle  bewildering. 
Companies  of  those  same  men  in  blue  and  brown 
were  being  rapidly  formed  and  marched  off  across 
a  little  open  space — near  a  pool — near  some  palm 
trees — near  a  house — into  the  hills.  At  one  side, 
a  mulatto  in  dirty  linen  and  an  old  straw  hat  was 
hospitably  using  a  machete  to  cut  open  some  green 
cocoanuts  for  a  group  of  idle  invaders.  At  the 
other  side,  up  a  bank,  a  blockhouse  was  burning 
furiously  ;  while  near  it  some  railway  sheds  were 
smouldering,  with  a  little  Roger's  engine  standing 
amid  the  ruins,  grey,  almost  white,  with  ashes 
until  it  resembled  a  ghost.  Little  Nell  dodged 
the  encrimsoned  blockhouse,  and  proceeded  where 
he  saw  a  little  village  street  lined  with  flimsy 
wooden  cottages.  Some  ragged  Cuban  cavalrymen 
were  tranquilly  tending  their  horses  in  a  shed 
which  had  not  yet  grown  cold  of  the  Spanish 
occupation.  Three  American  soldiers  were  trying 


80  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

to  explain  to  a  Cuban  that  they  wished  to  buy 
drinks.  A  native  rode  by,  clubbing  his  pony,  as 
always.  The  sky  was  blue  ;  the  sea  talked  with  a 
gravelly  accent  at  the  feet  of  some  rocks ;  upon 
its  bosom  the  ships  sat  quiet  as  gulls.  There  was 
no  mention,  directly,  of  invasion — invasion  for 
war — save  in  the  roar  of  the  flames  at  the  block- 
house ;  but  none  even  heeded  this  conflagration, 
excepting  to  note  that  it  threw  out  a  great  heat. 
It  was  warm,  very  warm.  It  was  really  hard  for 
Little  Nell  to  keep  from  thinking  of  his  own  affairs : 
his  debts,  other  misfortunes,  loves,  prospects  of 
happiness.  Nobody  was  in  a  flurry  ;  the  Cubans 
were  not  tearfully  grateful ;  the  American  troops 
were  visibly  glad  of  being  released  from  those  ill 
transports,  and  the  men  often  asked,  with  in- 
terest, "Where's  the  Spaniards?"  And  yet  it 
must  have  been  a  great  moment!  It  was  a  great 
moment ! 

It  seemed  made  to  prove  that  the  emphatic  time 
of  history  is  not  the  emphatic  time  of  the  common 
man,  who  throughout  the  change  of  nations  feels 
an  itch  on  his  shin,  a  pain  in  his  head,  hunger, 
thirst,  a  lack  of  sleep  ;  the  influence  of  his  memory 
of  past  firesides,  glasses  of  beer,  girls,  theatres, 
ideals,  religions,  parents,  faces,  hurts,  joy. 

Little    Nell    was   hailed    from    a    comfortable 


GOD  REST  YE,  MERRY  GENTLEMEN   8l 

veranda,  and,  looking  up,  saw  Walkley  of  the 
Eclipse,  stretched  in  a  yellow  and  green  hammock, 
smoking  his  pipe  with  an  air  of  having  always 
lived  in  that  house,  in  that  village.  "  Oh,  dear  little 
Nell,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  your  angel  face  again ! 
There !  don't  try  to  hide  it ;  I  can  see  it.  Did 
you  bring  a  corkscrew  too  ?  You're  superseded 
as  master  of  the  slaves.  Did  you  know  it  ?  And 
by  Rogers,  too  !  Rogers  is  a  Sadducee,  a  cadaver 
and  a  pelican,  appointed  to  the  post  of  chief  cor- 
respondent, no  doubt,  because  of  his  rare  gift  of 
incapacity.  Never  mind." 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?  "  asked  Little  Nell,  taking 
seat  on  the  steps. 

"  He  is  down  interfering  with  the  landing  of  the 
troops,"  answered  Walkley,  swinging  a  leg.  "  I 
hope  you  have  the  Johnson  well.stocked  with  food 
as  well  as  with  cigars,  cigarettes  and  tobaccos, 
ales,  wines  and  liquors.  We  shall  need  them. 
There  is  already  famine  in  the  house  of  Walkley. 
I  have  discovered  that  the  system  of  transporta- 
tion for  our  gallant  soldiery  does  not  strike  in  me 
the  admiration  which  I  have  often  felt  when  view- 
ing the  management  of  an  ordinary  bun-shop.  A 
hunger,  stifling,  jammed  together  amid  odours, 
and  everybody  irritable — ye  gods,  how  irritable ! 

And  so  I Look !  look !  " 

6 


82  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

The  Jefferson  G.  Johnson,  well  known  to  them 
at  an  incredible  distance,  could  be  seen  striding 
the  broad  sea,  the  smoke  belching  from  her 
funnel,  headed  for  Jamaica.  "  The  Army  Lands 
in  Cuba!"  shrieked  Walkley.  "  Shafter's  Army 
Lands  near  Santiago  !  Special  type  !  Half  the 
front  page  !  Oh,  the  Sadducee  !  The  cadaver  ! 
The  pelican  !  " 

Little  Nell  was  dumb  with  astonishment  and 
fear.  Walkley,  however,  was  at  least  not  dumb. 
"  That's  the  pelican  !  That's  Mr.  Rogers  making 
his  first  impression  upon  the  situation.  He  has 
engraved  himself  upon  us.  We  are  tattooed  with 
him.  There  will  be  a  fight  to-morrow,  sure,  and  we 
will  cover  it  even  as  you  found  Cervera's  fleet. 
No  food,  no  horses,  no  money.  I  am  transport 
lame ;  you  are  sea-weak.  We  will  never  see  our 
salaries  again.  Whereby  Rogers  is  a  fool." 

"Anybody  else  here?"  asked  Little  Nell 
wearily. 

"  Only  young  Point."  Point  was  an  artist  on 
the  Eclipse.  "But  he  has  nothing.  Pity  there 
wasn't  an  almshouse  in  this  God -forsaken  coun- 
try. Here  comes  Point  now."  A  sad-faced  man 
came  along  carrying  much  luggage.  "  Hello,  Point ! 
lithographer  and  genius,  have  you  food  ?  Food. 
Well,  then,  you  had  better  return  yourself  to 


GOD  REST  YE,  MERRY  GENTLEMEN   83 

Tampa  by  wire.  You  are  no  good  here.  Only 
one  more  little  mouth  to  feed." 

Point  seated  himself  near  Little  Nell.  "  I 
haven't  had  anything  to  eat  since  daybreak/'  he 
said  gloomily,  "  and  I  don't  care  much,  for  I  am 
simply  dog-tired." 

"  Don'  tell  me  you  are  dog-tired,  my  talented 
friend,"  cried  Walkley  from  his  hammock. 
"  Think  of  me.  And  now  what's  to  be  done  ?  " 

They  stared  for  a  time  disconsolately  at  where, 
over  the  rim  of  the  sea,  trailed  black  smoke  from 
\hejohnson.  From  the  landing-place  below  and 
to  the  right  came  the  howls  of  a  man  who  was 
superintending  the  disembarkation  of  some  mules. 
The  burning  blockhouse  still  rendered  its  hollow 
roar.  Suddenly  the  men-crowded  landing  set  up 
its  cheer,  and  the  steamers  all  whistled  long  and 
raucously.  Tiny  black  figures  were  raising  an 
American  flag  over  a  blockhouse  on  the  top  of 
a  great  hill. 

"  That's  mighty  fine  Sunday  stuff,"  said  Little 
Nell.  "  Well,  I'll  go  and  get  the  order  in  which 
the  regiments  landed,  and  who  was  first  ashore, 
and  all  that.  Then  I'll  go  and  try  to  find  General 
Lawton's  headquarters.  His  division  has  got  the 
advance,  I  think." 

"  And,  lo !     I  will  write  a  burning  description 


84  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

of  the  raising  of  the  flag/'  said  Walkley.  "  While 
the  brilliant  Point  huskies  for  food — and  makes 
damn  sure  he  gets  it,"  he  added  fiercely. 

Little  Nell  thereupon  wandered  over  the  face 
of  the  earth,  threading  out  the  story  of  the  land- 
ing of  the  regiments.  He  only  found  about  fifty 
men  who  had  been  the  first  American  soldier  to 
set  foot  on  Cuba,  and  of  these  he  took  the  most 
probable.  The  army  was  going  forward  in  detail, 
as  soon  as  the  pieces  were  landed.  There  was  a 
house  something  like  a  crude  country  tavern — 
the  soldiers  in  it  were  looking  over  their  rifles  and 
talking.  There  was  a  well  of  water  quite  hot — 
more  palm  trees — an  inscrutable  background. 

When  he  arrived  again  at  Walkley's  mansion 
he  found  the  verandah  crowded  with  correspon- 
dents in  khaki,  duck,  dungaree  and  flannel.  They 
wore  riding-breeches,  but  that  was  mainly  fore- 
thought. They  could  see  now  that  fate  intended 
them  to  walk.  Some  were  writing  copy,  while 
Walkley  discoursed  from  his  hammock.  Rhodes 
— doomed  to  be  shot  in  action  some  days  later — 
was  trying  to  borrow  a  canteen  from  men  who 
had  one,  and  from  men  who  had  none.  Young 
Point,  wan,  utterly  worn  out,  was  asleep  on  the 
floor.  Walkley  pointed  to  him.  "  That  is  how 
he  appears  after  his  foraging  journey,  during 


GOD  REST  YE,  MERRY  GENTLEMEN   85 

which  he  ran  all  Cuba  through  a  sieve.  Oh,  yes  ; 
a  can  of  corn  and  a  half-bottle  of  lime  juice." 

"Say,  does  anybody  know  the  name  of  the 
commander  of  the  26th  Infantry  ?  " 

"  Who  commands  the  first  brigade  of  Kent's 
Division  ?  " 

"  What  was  the  name  of  the  chap  that  raised  the 
flag?" 

"  What  time  is  it  ?  " 

And  a  woeful  man  was  wandering  here  and 
there  with  a  cold  pipe,  saying  plaintively,  "  Who's 
got  a  match  ?  Anybody  here  got  a  match  ?  " 

Liftle  Nell's  left  boot  hurt  him  at  the  heel,  and 
so  he  removed  it,  taking  great  care  and  whistling 
through  his  teeth.  The  heated  dust  was  upon 
them  all,  making  everybody  feel  that  bathing  was 
unknown  and  shattering  their  tempers.  Young 
Point  developed  a  snore  which  brought  grim  sar- 
casm from  all  quarters.  Always  below,  hummed 
the  traffic  of  the  landing-place. 

When  night  came  Little  Nell  thought  best  not 
to  go  to  bed  until  late,  because  he  recognised  the 
mackintosh  as  but  a  feeble  comfort.  The  evening 
was  a  glory.  A  breeze  came  from  the  sea,  fan- 
ning spurts  of  flame  out  of  the  ashes  and  charred 
remains  of  the  sheds,  while  overhead  lay  a  splen- 
did summer-night  sky,  aflash  with  great  tranquil 


86  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

stars.  In  the  streets  of  the  village  were  two  or 
three  fires,  frequently  and  suddenly  reddening 
with  their  glare  the  figures  of  low-voiced  men  who 
moved  here  and  there.  The  lights  of  the  trans- 
ports blinked  on  the  murmuring  plain  in  front  of 
the  village ;  and  far  to  the  westward  Little  Nell 
could  sometimes  note  a  subtle  indication  of  a 
playing  search-light,  which  alone  marked  the  pres- 
ence of  the  invisible  battleships,  half-mooned 
about  the  entrance  of  Santiago  Harbour,  waiting — 
waiting — waiting. 

When  Little  Nell  returned  to  the  veranda  he 
stumbled  along  a  man-strewn  place,  until  he  came 
to  the  spot  where  he  left  his  mackintosh  ;  but  he 
found  it  gone.  His  curses  mingled  then  with 
those  of  the  men  upon  whose  bodies  he  had  trod- 
den. Two  English  correspondents,  lying  awake 
to  smoke  a  last  pipe,  reared  and  looked  at  him 
lazily.  "  What's  wrong,  old  chap  ?  "  murmured 
one.  "Eh?  Lost  it,  eh?  Well,  look  here; 
come  here  and  take  a  bit  of  my  blanket.  It's  a 
jolly  big  one.  Oh,  no  trouble  at  all,  man.  There 
you  are.  Got  enough  ?  Comfy  ?  Good-night." 

A  sleepy  voice  arose  in  the  darkness.  "If 
this  hammock  breaks,  I  shall  hit  at  least  ten  of 
those  Indians  down  there.  Never  mind.  This 
is  war." 


GOD  REST  YE,  MERRY  GENTLEMEN   8/ 

The  men  slept.  Once  the  sound  of  three  or  four 
shots  rang  across  the  windy  night,  and  one  head 
uprose  swiftly  from  the  verandah,  two  eyes  looked 
dazedly  at  nothing,  and  the  head  as  swiftly  sank. 
Again  a  sleepy  voice  was  heard.  "  Usual  thing  ! 
Nervous  sentries !  "  The  men  slept.  Before  dawn 
a  pulseless,  penetrating  chill  came  into  the  air, 
and  the  correspondents  awakened,  shivering,  into 
a  blue  world.  Some  of  the  fires  still  smouldered. 
Walkley  and  Little  Nell  kicked  vigorously  into 
Point's  framework.  "  Come  on,  brilliance  !  Wake 
up,  talent !  Don't  be  sodgering.  It's  too  cold  to 
sleep,  but  it's  not  too  cold  to  hustle."  Point  sat 
up  dolefully.  Upon  his  face  was  a  childish  ex- 
pression. "Where  are  we  going  to  get  break- 
fast ?  "  he  asked,  sulking. 

"  There's  no  breakfast  for  you,  you  hound ! 
Get  up  and  hustle."  Accordingly  they  hustled. 
With  exceeding  difficulty  they  learned  that  noth- 
ing emotional  had  happened  during  the  night, 
save  the  killing  of  two  Cubans  who  were  so  secure 
in  ignorance  that  they  could  not  understand  the 
challenge  of  two  American  sentries.  Then 
Walkley  ran  a  gamut  of  commanding  officers,  and 
Little  Nell  pumped  privates  for  their  impressions 
of  Cuba.  When  his  indignation  at  the  absence  of 
breakfast  allowed  him,  Point  made  sketches.  At 


88  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

the  full  break  of  day  the  Adolphus,  and  Eclipse 
despatch  boat,  sent  a  boat  ashore  with  Tailor  and 
Shackles  in  it,  and  Walkley  departed  tearlessly 
for  Jamaica,  soon  after  he  had  bestowed  upon  his 
friends  much  tinned  goods  and  blankets. 

"Well,  we've  got  our  stuff  off,"  said  Little  Nell. 
"  Now  Point  and  I  must  breakfast." 

Shackles,  for  some  reason,  carried  a  great  hunt- 
ing-knife, and  with  it  Little  Nell  opened  a  tin  of 
beans. 

"  Fall  to,"  he  said  amiably  to  Point. 

There  were  some  hard  biscuits.  Afterwards 
they — the  four  of  them — marched  off  on  the  route 
of  the  troops.  They  were  well  loaded  with  lug- 
gage, particularly  young  Point,  who  had  somehow 
made  a  great  gathering  of  unnecessary  things. 
Hills  covered  with  verdure  soon  enclosed  them. 
They  heard  that  the  army  had  advanced  some 
nine  miles  with  no  fighting.  Evidences  of  the 
rapid  advance  were  here  and  there — coats,  gaunt- 
lets, blanket  rolls  on  the  ground.  Mule-trains 
came  herding  back  along  the  narrow  trail  to  the 
sound  of  a  little  tinkling  bell.  Cubans  were  ap- 
propriating the  coats  and  blanket-rolls. 

The  four  correspondents  hurried  onward.  The 
surety  of  impending  battle  weighed  upon  them 
always,  but  there  was  a  score  of  minor  things  more 


GOD  REST  YE,  MERRY  GENTLEMEN   89 

intimate.  Little  Nell's  left  heel  had  chafed  until 
it  must  have  been  quite  raw,  and  every  moment 
he  wished  to  take  seat  by  the  roadside  and  con- 
sole himself  from  pain.  Shackles  and  Point  dis- 
liked each  other  extremely,  and  often  they  fool- 
ishly quarrelled  over  something,  or  nothing. 
The  blanket-rolls  and  packages  for  the  hand  op- 
pressed everybody.  It  was  like  being  burned  out 
of  a  boarding-house,  and  having  to  carry  one's 
trunk  eight  miles  to  the  nearest  neighbour.  More- 
over, Point,  since  he  had  stupidly  overloaded, 
with  great  wisdom  placed  various  cameras  and 
other  trifles  in  the  hands  of  his  three  less-bur- 
dened and  more  sensible  friends.  This  made 
them  fume  and  gnash,  but  in  complete  silence, 
since  he  was  hideously  youthful  and  innocent 
and  unaware.  They  all  wished  to  rebel,  but  none 
of  them  saw  their  way  clear,  because — they  did 
not  understand.  But  somehow  it  seemed  a  bar- 
barous project — no  one  wanted  to  say  anything — 
cursed  him  privately  for  a  little  ass,  but — said 
nothing.  For  instance,  Little  Nell  wished  to  re- 
mark, "  Point,  you  are  not  a  thoroughbred  in  a 
half  of  a  way.  You  are  an  inconsiderate,  thought- 
less little  swine."  But,  in  truth,  he  said,  "  Point, 
when  you  started  out  you  looked  like  a  Christ- 
mas-tree, If  we  keep  on  robbing  you  of  your 


90  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

bundles  there  soon  won't  be  anything  left  for  the 
children."  Point  asked  dubiously,  "  What  do 
you  mean  ? "  Little  Nell  merely  laughed  with 
deceptive  good-nature. 

They  were  always  very  thirsty.  There  was 
always  a  howl  for  the  half-bottle  of  lime  juice. 
Five  or  six  drops  from  it  were  simply  heavenly  in 
the  warm  water  from  the  canteens.  Point  seemed 
to  try  to  keep  the  lime  juice  in  his  possession,  in 
order  that  he  might  get  more  benefit  of  it.  Be- 
fore the  war  was  ended  the  others  found  them- 
selves declaring  vehemently  that  they  loathed 
Point,  and  yet  when  men  asked  them  the  reason 
they  grew  quite  inarticulate.  The  reasons  seemed 
then  so  small,  so  childish,  as  the  reasons  of  a  lot 
of  women.  And  yet  at  the  time  his  offences 
loomed  enormous. 

The  surety  of  impending  battle  still  weighed 
upon  them.  Then  it  came  that  Shackles  turned 
seriously  ill.  Suddenly  he  dropped  his  own  and 
much  of  Point's  traps  upon  the  trail,  wriggled  out 
of  his  blanket-roll,  flung  it  away,  and  took  seat 
heavily  at  the  roadside.  They  saw  with  surprise 
that  his  face  was  pale  as  death,  and  yet  streaming 
with  sweat. 

"  Boys,"  he  said  in  his  ordinary  voice,  "  I'm 
clean  played  out.  I  can't  go  another  step.  You 


GOD  REST  YE,  MERRY  GENTLEMEN   QI 

fellows  go  on,  and  leave  me  to  come  as  soon  as  I 
am  able." 

"  Oh,  no,  that  wouldn't  do  at  all,"  said  Little 
Nell  and  Tailor  together. 

Point  moved  over  to  a  soft  place,  and  dropped 
amid  whatever  traps  he  was  himself  carrying. 

"  Don't  know  whether  it's  ancestral  or  merely 
from  the  —  sun — but  I've  got  a  stroke,"  said 
Shackles,  and  gently  slumped  over  to  a  prostrate 
position  before  either  Little  Nell  or  Tailor  could 
reach  him. 

Thereafter  Shackles  was  parental ;  it  was  Little 
Nell  and  Tailor  who  were  really  suffering  from  a 
stroke,  either  ancestral  or  from  the  sun. 

"  Put  my  blanket-roll  under  my  head,  Nell,  me 
son,"  he  said  gently.  "  There  now  !  That  is  very 
nice.  It  is  delicious.  Why,  I'm  all  right,  only — 
only  tired."  He  closed  his  eyes,  and  something 
like  an  easy  slumber  came  over  him.  Once  he 
opened  his  eyes.  "  Don't  trouble  about  me,"  he 
remarked. 

But  the  two  fussed  about  him,  nervous,  worried, 
discussing  this  plan  and  that  plan.  It  was  Point 
who  first  made  a  business-like  statement.  Seated 
carelessly  and  indifferently  upon  his  soft  place, 
he  finally  blurted  out  : 

"  Say  !     Look  here  !     Some  of  us  have  got  to 


92  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

go  on.  We  can't  all  stay  here.  Some  of  us  have 
got  to  go  on." 

It  was  quite  true  ;  the  Eclipse  could  take  no  ac- 
count of  strokes.  In  the  end  Point  and  Tailor 
went  on,  leaving  Little  Nell  to  bring  on  Shackles 
as  soon  as  possible.  The  latter  two  spent  many 
hours  in  the  grass  by  the  roadside.  They  made 
numerous  abrupt  acquaintances  with  passing  staff 
officers,  privates,  muleteers,  many  stopping  to  in- 
quire the  wherefore  of  the  death-faced  figure  on 
the  ground.  Favours  were  done  often  and  often, 
by  peer  and  peasant — small  things,  of  no  conse- 
quence, and  yet  warming. 

It  was  dark  when  Shackles  and  Little  Nell  had 
come  slowly  to  where  they  could  hear  the  mur- 
mur of  the  army's  bivouac. 

"  Shack,"  gasped  Little  Nell  to  the  man  leaning 
forlornly  upon  him,  "  I  guess  we'd  better  bunk 
down  here  where  we  stand." 

"All  right,  old  boy.  Anything  you  say,"  re- 
plied Shackles,  in  the  bass  and  hollow  voice  which 
arrives  with  such  condition. 

They  crawled  into  some  bushes,  and  distributed 
their  belongings  upon  the  ground.  Little  Nell 
spread  out  the  blankets,  and  generally  played 
housemaid.  Then  they  lay  down,  supperless, 
being  too  weary  to  eat.  The  men  slept. 


GOD   REST   YE,  MERRY   GENTLEMEN      93 

At  dawn  Little  Nell  awakened  and  looked 
wildly  for  Shackles,  whose  empty  blanket  was 
pressed  flat  like  a  wet  newspaper  on  the  ground. 
But  at  nearly  the  same  moment  Shackles  appeared, 
elate. 

"  Come  on,"  he  cried  ;  "  I've  rustled  an  invita- 
tion for  breakfast." 

Little  Nell  came  on  with  celerity. 

"Where?    Who  ?"  he  said. 

"  Oh !  some  officers,"  replied  Shackles  airily. 
If  he  had  been  ill  the  previous  day,  he  showed  it 
now  only  in  some  curious  kind  of  deference  he 
paid  to  Little  Nell. 

Shackles  conducted  his  comrade,  and  soon  they 
arrived  at  where  a  captain  and  his  one  subaltern 
arose  courteously  from  where  they  were  squatting 
near  a  fire  of  little  sticks.  They  wore  the  wide 
white  trouser-stripes  of  infantry  officers,  and  upon 
the  shoulders  of  their  blue  campaign  shirts  were 
the  little  marks  of  their  rank  ;  but  otherwise  there 
was  little  beyond  their  manners  to  render  them 
different  from  the  men  who  were  busy  with  break- 
fast near  them.  The  captain  was  old,  grizzled — a 
common  type  of  captain  in  the  tiny  American 
army — overjoyed  at  the  active  service,  confident 
of  his  business,  and  yet  breathing  out  in  some  way 
a  note  of  pathos.  The  war  was  come  too  late 


94  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN. 

Age  was  grappling  him,  and  honours  were  only 
for  his  widow  and  his  children — merely  a  better 
life  insurance  policy.  He  had  spent  his  life  police- 
ing  Indians  with  much  labour,  cold  and  heat,  but 
with  no  glory  for  him  nor  his  fellows.  All  he 
now  could  do  was  to  die  at  the  head  of  his  men. 
If  he  had  youthfully  dreamed  of  a  general's  stars, 
they  were  now  impossible  to  him,  and  he  knew  it. 
He  was  too  old  to  leap  so  far  ;  his  sole  honour 
was  a  new  invitation  to  face  death.  And  yet,  with 
his  ambitions  lying  half-strangled,  he  was  going 
to  take  his  men  into  any  sort  of  holocaust,  because 
his  traditions  were  of  gentlemen  and  soldiers,  and 
because — he  loved  it  for  itself — the  thing  itself — 
the  whirl,  the  unknown.  If  he  had  been  degraded 
at  that  moment  to  be  a  pot-wrestler,  no  power 
could  have  starved  him  from  going  through  the 
campaign  as  a  spectator.  Why,  the  army  !  It 
was  in  each  drop  of  his  blood. 

The  lieutenant  was  very  young.  Perhaps  he 
had  been  hurried  out  of  West  Point  at  the  last 
moment,  upon  a  shortage  of  officers  appearing. 
To  him,  all  was  opportunity.  He  was,  in  fact,  in 
great  luck.  Instead  of  going  off  in  1898  to  grill 
for  an  indefinite  period  on  some  God-forgotten 
heap  of  red-hot  sand  in  New  Mexico,  he  was  here 
in  Cuba,  on  real  business,  with  his  regiment. 


GOD  REST  YE,  MERRY  GENTLEMEN   95 

When  the  big  engagement  came  he  was  sure  to 
emerge  from  it  either  horizontally  or  at  the  head 
of  a  company,  and  what  more  could  a  boy  ask  ? 
He  was  a  very  modest  lad,  and  talked  nothing  of 
his  frame  of  mind,  but  an  expression  of  blissful 
contentment  was  ever  upon  his  face.  He  really 
accounted  himself  the  most  fortunate  boy  of  his 
time  ;  and  he  felt  almost  certain  that  he  would  do 
well.  It  was  necessary  to  do  well.  He  would  do 
well. 

And  yet  in  many  ways  these  two  were  alike ; 
the  grizzled  captain  with  his  gently  mournful 
countenance — "  Too  late  " — and  the  elate  young 
second  lieutenant,  his  commission  hardly  dry. 
Here  again  it  was  the  influence  of  the  army. 
After  all  they  were  both  children  of  the  army. 

It  is  possible  to  spring  into  the  future  here  and 
chronicle  what  happened  later.  The  captain,  after 
thirty-five  years  of  waiting  for  his  chance,  took  his 
Mauser  bullet  through  the  brain  at  the  foot  of 
San  Juan  Hill  in  the  very  beginning  of  the  battle, 
and  the  boy  arrived  on  the  crest  panting,  sweating, 
but  unscratched,  and  not  sure  whether  he  com- 
manded one  company  or  a  whole  battalion.  Thus 
fate  dealt  to  the  hosts  of  Shackles  and  Little  Nell. 

The  breakfast  was  of  canned  tomatoes  stewed 
with  hard  bread,  more  hard  bread,  and  coffee.  It 


96  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

was  very  good  fare,  almost  royal.  Shackles  and 
Little  Nell  were  absurdly  grateful  as  they  felt  the 
hot  bitter  coffee  tingle  in  them.  But  they  de- 
parted joyfully  before  the  sun  was  fairly  up,  and 
passed  into  Siboney.  They  never  saw  the  captain 
again. 

The  beach  at  Siboney  was  furious  with  traffic, 
even  as  had  been  the  beach  at  Daqueri.  Launches 
shouted,  jack-tars  prodded  with  their  boathooks, 
and  load  of  men  followed  load  of  men.  Straight, 
parade-like,  on  the  shore  stood  a  trumpeter  play- 
ing familiar  calls  to  the  troop-horses  who  swam 
towards  him  eagerly  through  the  salt  seas.  Crowd- 
ing closely  into  the  cove  were  transports  of  all 
sizes  and  ages.  To  the  left  and  to  the  right  of 
the  little  landing-beach  green  hills  shot  upward 
like  the  wings  in  a  theatre.  They  were  scarred 
here  and  there  with  blockhouses  and  rifle-pits. 
Up  one  hill  a  regiment  was  crawling,  seemingly 
inch  by  inch.  Shackles  and  Little  Nell  walked 
among  palms  and  scrubby  bushes,  near  pools,  over 
spaces  of  sand  holding  little  monuments  of  biscuit- 
boxes,  ammunition-boxes,  and  supplies  of  all 
kinds.  Some  regiment  was  just  collecting  itself 
from  the  ships,  and  the  men  made  great  patches 
of  blue  on  the  brown  sand. 

Shackles  asked  a  question  of  a  man  accidentally  : 


GOD    REST   YE,  MERRY   GENTLEMEN      97 

"  Where's  that  regiment  going  to?  "  He  pointed 
to  the  force  that  was  crawling  up  the  hill.  The 
man  grinned,  and  said,  "  They're  going  to  look 
for  a  fight!" 

"  Looking  for  a  fight  ! "  said  Shackles  and 
Little  Nell  together.  They  stared  into  each 
other's  eyes.  Then  they  set  off  for  the  foot  of 
the  hill.  The  hill  was  long  and  toilsome.  Below 
them  spread  wider  and  wider  a  vista  of  ships  quiet 
on  a  grey  sea  ;  a  busy,  black  disembarkation- 
place  ;  tall,  still,  green  hills  ;  a  village  of  well 
separated  cottages  ;  palms  ;  a  bit  of  road  ;  sol- 
diers marching.  They  passed  vacant  Spanish 
trenches  ;  little  twelve-foot  blockhouses.  Soon 
they  were  on  a  fine  upland  near  the  sea.  The 
path,  under  ordinary  conditions,  must  have  been 
a  beautiful  wooded  way.  It  wound  in  the 
shade  of  thickets  of  fine  trees,  then  through  rank 
growths  of  bushes  with  revealed  and  fantastic 
roots,  then  through  a  grassy  space  which  had  all 
the  beauty  of  a  neglected  orchard.  But  always 
from  under  their  feet  scuttled  noisy  land-crabs, 
demons  to  the  nerves,  which  in  some  way  pos- 
sessed a  semblance  of  moon-like  faces  upon  their 
blue  or  red  bodies,  and  these  faces  were  turned 
with  expressions  of  deepest  horror  upon  Shackles 
and  Little  Nell  as  they  sped  to  overtake  the 
7 


98  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

pugnacious  regiment.  The  route  was  paved  with 
coats,  hats,  tent  and  blanket  rolls,  ration-tins, 
haversacks — everything  but  ammunition  belts, 
rifles  and  canteens. 

They  heard  a  dull  noise  of  voices  in  front  of 
them — men  talking  too  loud  for  the  etiquette  of 
the  forest — and  presently  they  came  upon  two  or 
three  soldiers  lying  by  the  roadside,  flame-faced, 
utterly  spent  from  the  hurried  march  in  the  heat. 
One  man  came  limping  back  along  the  path.  He 
looked  to  them  anxiously  for  sympathy  and  com- 
prehension. "  Hurt  m'  knee.  I  swear  I  couldn't 
keep  up  with  th'  boys.  I  had  to  leave  'm.  Wasn't 
that  tough  luck?"  His  collar  rolled  away  from 
a  red,  muscular  neck,  and  his  bare  forearms  were 
better  than  stanchions.  Yet  he  was  almost 
babyishly  tearful  in  his  attempt  to  make  the 
two  correspondents  feel  that  he  had  not  turned 
back  because  he  was  afraid.  They  gave  him 
scant  courtesy,  tinctured  with  one  drop  of  sym- 
pathetic yet  cynical  understanding.  Soon  they 
overtook  the  hospital  squad ;  men  addressing 
chaste  language  to  some  pack-mules ;  a  talkative 
sergeant ;  two  amiable,  cool-eyed  young  surgeons. 
Soon  they  were  amid  the  rear  troops  of  the  dis- 
mounted volunteer  cavalry  regiment  which  was 
moving  to  attack.  The  men  strode  easily  along, 


GOD   REST   YE,  MERRY   GENTLEMEN      99 

arguing  one  to  another  on  ulterior  matters.  If 
they  were  going  into  battle,  they  either  did  not 
know  it  or  they  concealed  it  well.  They  were 
more  like  men  going  into  a  bar  at  one  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  Their  laughter  rang  through  the 
Cuban  woods.  And  in  the  meantime,  soft,  mel- 
low, sweet,  sang  the  voice  of  the  Cuban  wood- 
dove,  the  Spanish  guerilla  calling  to  his  mate — 
forest  music  ;  on  the  flanks,  deep  back  on  both 
flanks,  the  adorable  wood-dove,  singing  only  of 
love.  Some  of  the  advancing  Americans  said  it 
was  beautiful.  It  was  beautiful.  The  Spanish 
guerilla  calling  to  his  mate.  What  could  be  more 
beautiful  ? 

Shackles  and  Little  Nell  rushed  precariously 
through  waist-high  bushes  until  they  reached  the 
centre  of  the  single-filed  regiment.  The  firing 
then  broke  out  in  front.  All  the  woods  set  up  a 
hot  sputtering ;  the  bullets  sped  along  the  path 
and  across  it  from  both  sides.  The  thickets  pre- 
sented nothing  but  dense  masses  of  light  green 
foliage,  out  of  which  these  swift  steel  things  were 
born  supernaturally. 

It  was  a  volunteer  regiment  going  into  its  first 
action,  against  an  enemy  of  unknown  force,  in  a 
country  where  the  vegetation  was  thicker  than  fur 
on  a  cat.  There  might  have  been  a  dreadful 


100  WOUNDS   IN   THE   RAIN 

mess ;  but  in  military  matters  the  only  way  to  deal 
with  a  situation  of  this  kind  is  to  take  it  frankly 
by  the  throat  and  squeeze  it  to  death.  Shackles 
and  Little  Nell  felt  the  thrill  of  the  orders. 
"  Come  ahead,  men  !  Keep  right  ahead,  men  ! 
Come  on !  "  The  volunteer  cavalry  regiment, 
with  all  the  willingness  in  the  world,  went  ahead 
into  the  angle  of  V-shaped  Spanish  forma- 
tion. 

It  seemed  that  every  leaf  had  turned  into  a 
soda-bottle  and  was  popping  its  cork.  Some  of 
the  explosions  seemed  to  be  against  the  men's 
very  faces,  others  against  the  backs  of  their  necks. 
"  Now,  men  !  Keep  goin'  ahead.  Keep  on  goin*.  " 
The  forward  troops  were  already  engaged.  They, 
at  least,  had  something  at  which  to  shoot.  "  Now, 
captain,  if  you're  ready."  "  Stop  that  swear- 
ing there."  "Got  a  match?"  "Steady,  now, 
men." 

A  gate  appeared  in  a  barbed-wire  fence.  Within 
were  billowy  fields  of  long  grass,  dotted  with 
palms  and  luxuriant  mango  trees.  It  was  Elysian 
— a  place  for  lovers,  fair  as  Eden  in  its  radiance 
of  sun,  under  its  blue  sky.  One  might  have  ex- 
pected to  see  white-robed  figures  walking  slowly 
in  trie  shadows.  A  dead  man,  with  a  bloody  face, 
lay  twisted  in  a  curious  contortion  at  the  waist. 


GOD   REST  YE,  MERRY   GENTLEMEN      IOI 

Someone  was  shot  in  the  leg,  his  pins  knocked 
cleanly  from  under  him. 

"  Keep  goin',  men."  The  air  roared,  and  the 
ground  fled  reelingly  under  their  feet.  Light, 
shadow,  trees,  grass.  Bullets  spat  from  every 
side.  Once  they  were  in  a  thicket,  and  the  men, 
blanched  and  bewildered,  turned  one  way,  and 
then  another,  not  knowing  which,  way  to  turn. 
"  Keep  goin',  men."  Soon  they  were  in  the  sun- 
light again.  They  could  see  the  long  scant  line, 
which  was  being  drained  man  by  man — one  might 
say  drop  by  drop.  The  musketry  rolled  forth  in 
great  full  measure  from  the  magazine  carbines. 
"Keep  goin',  men."  "Christ,  I'm  shot!" 
"  They're  flankin'  us,  sir."  "  We're  bein'  fired 
into  by  our  own  crowd,  sir."  "  Keep  goin',  men." 
A  low  ridge  before  them  was  a  bottling  establish- 
ment blowing  up  in  detail.  From  the  right — it 
seemed  at  that  time  to  be  the  far  right — they 
could  hear  steady,  crashing  volleys — the  United 
States  regulars  in  action. 

Then  suddenly — to  use  a  phrase  of  the  street — 
the  whole  bottom  of  the  thing  fell  out.  It  was 
suddenly  and  mysteriously  ended.  The  Spaniards 
had  run  away,  and  some  of  the  regulars  were  chas- 
ing them.  It  was  a  victory. 

When  the  wounded  men  dropped  in  the  tall 


102  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

grass  they  quite  disappeared,  as  if  they  had  sunk 
in  water.  Little  Nell  and  Shackles  were  walking 
along  through  the  fields,  disputing. 

"  Well,  damn  it,  man  ! "  cried  Shackles,  "  we 
must  get  a  list  of  the  killed  and  wounded." 

"  That  is  not  nearly  so  important,"  quoth  little 
Nell,  academically,  "  as  to  get  the  first  account  to 
New  York  of  .the  first  action  of  the  army  in  Cuba." 

They  came  upon  Tailor,  lying  with  a  bared  torso 
and  a  small  red  hole  through  his  left  lung.  He 
was  calm,  but  evidently  out  of  temper.  "  Good 
God,  Tailor!  "  they  cried,  dropping  to  their  knees 
like  two  pagans  ;  "  are  you  hurt,  old  boy  ?  " 

"Hurt?"  he  said  gently.  "  No,  'tis  not  so  deep 
as  a  well  nor  so  wide  as  a  church-door,  but  'tis 
enough,  d'  you  see  ?  You  understand,  do  you  ? 
Idiots !  " 

Then  he  became  very  official.  "  Shackles,  feel 
and  see  what's  under  my  leg.  It's  a  small  stone, 
or  a  burr,  or  something.  Don't  be  clumsy  now  ! 
Be  careful !  Be  careful !  "  Then  he  said,  angrily , 
"  Oh,  you  didn't  find  it  at  all.  Damn  it !  " 

In  reality  there  was  nothing  there,  and  so 
Shackles  could  not  have  removed  it.  "  Sorry,  old 
boy,"  he  said,  meekly. 

"  Well,  you  may  observe  that  I  can't  stay  here 
more  than  a  year,"  said  Tailor,  with  some  oratory, 


GOD    REST   YE,  MERRY   GENTLEMEN       IO3 

"  and  the  hospital  people  have  their  own  work  in 
hand.  It  behoves  you,  Nell,  to  fly  to  Siboney, 
arrest  a  despatch  boat,  get  a  cot  and  some  other 
things,  and  some  minions  to  carry  me.  If  I  get 
once  down  to  the  base  I'm  all  right,  but  if  I  stay 
here  I'm  dead.  Meantime  Shackles  can  stay  here 
and  try  to  look  as  if  he  liked  it." 

There  was  no  disobey  ing  the  man.  Lying  there 
with  a  little  red  hole  in  his  left  lung,  he  dominated 
them  through  his  helplessness,  and  through  their 
fear  that  if  they  angered  him  he  would  move  and 
-bleed. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Little  Nell. 

"  Yes,"  said  Shackles,  nodding. 

Little  Nell  departed. 

"That  blanket  you  lent  me,"  Tailor  called  after 
him,  "  is  back  there  somewhere  with  Point." 

Little  Nell  noted  that  many  of  the  men  who 
were  wandering  among  the  wounded  seemed  so 
spent  with  the  toil  and  excitement  of  their  first 
action  that  they  could  hardly  drag  one  leg  after 
the  other.  He  found  himself  suddenly  in  the 
same  condition,  His  face,  his  neck,  even  his 
mouth,  felt  dry  as  sun-baked  bricks,  and  his  legs 
were  foreign  to  him.  But  he  swung  desperately 
into  his  five-mile  task.  On  the  way  he  passed 
many  things  :  bleeding  men  carried  by  comrades ; 


104  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

others  making  their  way  grimly,  with  encrimsoned 
arms ;  then  the  little  settlement  of  the  hospital 
squad ;  men  on  the  ground  everywhere,  many  in 
the  path ;  one  young  captain  dying,  with  great 
gasps,  his  body  pale  blue,  and  glistening,  like  the 
inside  of  a  rabbit's  skin.  But  the  voice  of  the 
Cuban  wood-dove,  soft,  mellow,  sweet,  singing 
only  of  love,  was  no  longer  heard  from  the  wealth 
of  foliage. 

Presently  the  hurrying  correspondent  met  an- 
other regiment  coming  to  assist — a  line  of  a  thou- 
sand men  in  single  file  through  the  jungle.  "  Well, 
how  is  it  going,  old  man  ?  "  "  How  is  it  coming 
on  ?  "  "  Are  we  doin'  'em  ?  "  Then,  after  an  in- 
terval, came  other  regiments,  moving  out.  He 
had  to  take  to  the  bush  to  let  these  long  lines 
pass  him,  and  he  was  delayed,  and  had  to  flounder 
amid  brambles.  But  at  last,  like  a  successful  pil- 
grim, he  arrived  at  the  brow  of  the  great  hill  over- 
looking Siboney.  His  practised  eye  scanned  the 
fine  broad  brow  of  the  sea  with  its  clustering  ships, 
but  he  saw  thereon  no  Eclipse  despatch  boats.  He 
zigzagged  heavily  down  the  hill,  and  arrived  finally 
amid  the  dust  and  outcries  of  the  base.  He  seemed 
to  ask  a  thousand  men  if  they  had  seen  an  Eclipse 
boat  on  the  water,  or  an  Eclipse  correspondent  on 
the  shore.  They  all  answered,  "  No." 


GOD  REST  YE,  MERRY  GENTLEMEN   IO5 

He  was  like  a  poverty-stricken  and  unknown 
suppliant  at  a  foreign  Court.  Even  his  plea  got 
only  ill-hearings.  He  had  expected  the  news  of 
the  serious  wounding  of  Tailor  to  appal  the  other 
correspondents,  but  they  took  it  quite  calmly.  It 
was  as  if  their  sense  of  an  impending  great  battle 
between  two  large  armies  had  quite  got  them  out 
of  focus  for  these  minor  tragedies.  Tailor  was 
hurt — yes?  They  looked  at  Little  Nell,  dazed. 
How  curious  that  Tailor  should  be  almost  the  first 
— how  very  curious — yes.  But,  as  far  as  arousing 
them  to  any  enthusiasm  of  active  pity,  it  seemed 
impossible.  He  was  lying  up  there  in  the  grass, 
was  he  ?  Too  bad,  too  bad,  too  bad  ! 

Little  Nell  went  alone  and  lay  down  in  the 
sand  with  his  back  against  a  rock.  Tailor  was 
prostrate  up  there  in  the  grass.  Never  mind. 
Nothing  was  to  be  done.  The  whole  situation 
was  too  colossal.  Then  into  his  zone  came 
Walkley  the  invincible. 

"  Walkley  !  "  yelled  Little  Nell.  Walkley  came 
quickly,  and  Little  Nell  lay  weakly .  against  his 
rock  and  talked.  In  thirty  seconds  Walkley 
understood  everything,  had  hurled  a  drink  of 
whisky  into  Little  Nell,  had  admonished  him  to 
lie  quiet,  and  had  gone  to  organise  and  manipu- 
late. When  he  returned  he  was  a  trifle  dubious 


106  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

and  backward.  Behind  him  was  a  singular  squad 
of  volunteers  from  the  Adolphus,  carrying  among 
them  a  wire-woven  bed. 

"Look  here,  Nell !"  said  Walkley,  in  bashful 
accents ;  "  I've  collected  a  battalion  here  which 
is  willing  to  go  bring  Tailor  ;  but — they  say — you 
— can't  you  show  them  where  he  is  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Little  Nell,  arising. 

When  the  party  arrived  at  Siboney,  and  de- 
posited Tailor  in  the  best  place,  Walkley  had 
found  a  house  and  stocked  it  with  canned  soups. 
Therein  Shackles  and  Little  Nell  revelled  for  a 
time,  and  then  rolled  on  the  floor  in  their  blankets. 
Little  Nell  tossed  a  great  deal.  "  Oh,  I'm  so  tired. 
Good  God,  I'm  tired.  I'm— tired." 

In  the  morning  a  voice  aroused  them.  It  was 
a  swollen,  important,  circus  voice  saying,  "  Where 
is  Mr.  Nell  ?  I  wish  to  see  him  immediately." 

"  Here  I  am,  Rogers,"  cried  Little  Nell. 

"  Oh,  Nell,"  said  Rogers,  "  here's  a  despatch  to 
me  which  I  thought  you  had  better  read." 

Little  Nell  took  the  despatch.  It  was  :  "  Tell 
Nell  can't  understand  his  inaction ;  tell  him  come 
home  first  steamer  from  Port  Antonio,  Jamaica." 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  ADOLPHUS 

I 

"  STAND  by." 

Shackles  had  come  down  from  the  bridge  of 
the  Adolphus  and  flung  this  command  at  three 
fellow-correspondents  who  in  the  galley  were 
busy  with  pencils  trying  to  write  something  excit- 
ing and  interesting  from  four  days  quiet  cruising. 
They  looked  up  casually.  "  What  for  ?  They 
did  not  intend  to  arouse  for  nothing.  Ever  since 
Shackles  had  heard  the  men  of  the  navy  directing 
each  other  to  stand  by  for  this  thing  and  that 
thing,  he  had  used  the  two  words  as  his  pet 
phrase  and  was  continually  telling  his  friends  to 
stand  by.  Sometimes  its  portentous  and  em- 
phatic reiteration  became  highly  exasperating 
and  men  were  apt  to  retort  sharply.  "  Well,  I 
am  standing  by,  ain't  I  ? "  On  this  occasion 
they  detected  that  he  was  serious.  "  Well, 
what  for  ?  "  they  repeated.  In  his  answer  Shackles 
was  reproachful  as  well  as  impressive.  "  Stand 

by  ?     Stand  by  for  a  Spanish  gunboat.     A  Span- 

107 


I08  WOUNDS   IN    THE    RAIN 

ish  gunboat  in  chase  !  Stand  by  for  two  Spanish 
gunboats — both  of  them  in  chase  !  " 

The  others  looked  at  him  for  a  brief  space  and 
were  almost  certain  that  they  saw  truth  written 
upon  his  countenance.  Whereupon  they  tumbled 
out  of  the  galley  and  galloped  up  to  the  bridge. 
The  cook  with  a  mere  inkling  of  tragedy  was  now 
out  on  deck  bawling,  "  What's  the  matter  ? 
What's  the  matter  ?  What's  the  matter  ?  " 
Aft,  the  grimy  head  of  a  stoker  was  thrust  sud- 
denly up  through  the  deck,  so  to  speak.  The 
eyes  flashed  in  a  quick  look  astern  and  then  the 
head  vanished.  The  correspondents  were  scram- 
bling on  the  bridge.  "  Where's  my  glasses,  damn 
it  ?  Here — let  me  take  a  look.  Are  they  Span- 
iards, Captain  ?  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

The  skipper  of  the  Adolphus  was  at  the  wheel. 
The  pilot-house  was  so  arranged  that  he  could 
not  see  astern  without  hanging  forth  from  one  of 
the  side  windows,  but  apparently  he  had  made 
early  investigation.  He  did  not  reply  at  once. 
At  sea,  he  never  replied  at  once  to  questions.  At 
the  very  first,  Shackles  had  discovered  the  merits 
of  this  deliberate  manner  and  had  taken  delight 
in  it.  He  invariably  detailed  his  talk  with  the 
captain  to  the  other  correspondents.  "Look 
here.  I've  just  been  to  see  the  skipper.  I  said  '  I 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  ADOLPHUS 

would  like  to  put  into  Cape  Haytien.'  Then  he 
took  a  little  think.  Finally  he  said :  '  All  right.' 
Then  I  said :  '  I  suppose  we'll  need  to  take  on 
more  coal  there  ?  '  He  took  another  little  think. 
I  said :  l  Ever  ran  into  that  port  before  ? '  He 
took  another  little  think.  Finally  he  said  :  '  Yes.' 
I  said  '  Have  a  cigar  ? '  He  took  another  little 
think.  See  ?  There's  where  I  fooled  'im " 

While  the  correspondents  spun  the  hurried 
questions  at  him,  the  captain  of  the  Adolphus 
stood  with  his  brown  hands  on  the  wheel  and  his 
cold  glance  aligned  straight  over  the  bow  of  his 
ship. 

"  Are  they  Spanish  gunboats,  Captain  ?  Are 
they,  Captain  ?  " 

After  a  profound  pause,  he  said  :  "  Yes."  The 
four  correspondents  hastily  and  in  perfect  time 
presented  their  backs  to  him  and  fastened  their 
gaze  on  the  pursuing  foe.  They  saw  a  dull  grey 
curve  of  sea  going  to  the  feet  of  the  high  green 
and  blue  coast-line  of  north-eastern  Cuba,  and  on 
this  sea  were  two  miniature  ships  with  clouds  of 
iron-coloured  smoke  pouring  from  their  funnels. 

One  of  the  correspondents  strolled  elaborately 
to  the  pilot-house.  "  Aw — Captain,"  he  drawled, 
"  do  you  think  they  can  catch  us  ?  " 

The  captain's  glance  was  still  aligned  over  the 


IIO  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

bow  of  his  ship.  Ultimately  he  answered  :  "  I 
don't  know." 

From  the  top  of  the  little  Adolphus  stack, 
thick  dark  smoke  swept  level  for  a  few  yards  and 
then  went  rolling  to  leaward  in  great  hot  obscur- 
ing clouds.  From  time  to  time  the  grimy  head 
was  thrust  through  the  deck,  the  eyes  took  the 
quick  look  astern  and  then  the  head  vanished. 
The  cook  was  trying  to  get  somebody  to  listen  to 
him.  "  Well,  you  know,  damn  it  all,  it  won't  be 
no  fun  to  be  ketched  by  them  Spaniards.  Be- 
Gawd,  it  won't.  Look  here,  what  do  you  think 
they'll  do  to  us,  hey  ?  Say,  I  don't  like  this,  you 
know.  I'm  damned  if  I  do."  The  sea,  cut  by 
the  hurried  bow  of  the  Adolphns,  flung  its  waters 
astern  in  the  formation  of  a  wide  angle  and  the 
lines  of  the  angle  ruffled  and  hissed  as  they  fled, 
while  the  thumping  screw  tormented  the  water  at 
the  stern.  The  frame  of  the  steamer  underwent 
regular  convulsions  as  in  the  strenuous  sobbing  of 
a  child. 

The  mate  was  standing  near  the  pilot-house. 
Without  looking  at  him,  the  captain  spoke  his 
name.  "  Ed  !  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  cried  the  mate  with  alacrity. 

The  captain  reflected  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
said  :  "  Are  they  gainin'  on  us  ?  " 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  ADOLPHUS   III 

The  mate  took  another  anxious  survey  of  the 
race.  "  No — o — yes,  I  think  they  are — a  little." 

After  a  pause  the  captain  said  :  "  Tell  the  chief 
to  shake  her  up  more." 

The  mate,  glad  of  an  occupation  in  these  tense 
minutes,  flew  down '  to  the  engine-room  door. 
"  Skipper  says  shake  'er  up  more  !  "  he  bawled.  The 
head  of  the  chief  engineer  appeared,  a  grizzly  head 
now  wet  with  oil  and  sweat.  "  What  ?  "  he  shouted 
angrily.  It  was  as  if  he  had  been  propelling  the 
ship  with  his  own  arms.  Now  he  was  told  that 
his  best  was  not  good  enough.  "  What  ?  shake 
'er  up  more  ?  Why  she  can't  carry  another  pound, 
I  tell  you  !  Not  another  ounce  !  We Sud- 
denly he  ran  forward  and  climbed  to  the  bridge. 
"  Captain,"  he  cried  in  the  loud  harsh  voice  of  one 
who  lived  usually  amid  the  thunder  of  machinery, 
"  she  can't  do  it,  sir !  Be-Gawd,  she  can't !  She's 
turning  over  now  faster  than  she  ever  did  in  her 
life  and  we'll  all  blow  to  hell " 

The  low-toned,  impassive  voice  of  the  captain 
suddenly  checked  the  chief 's  clamour.  "  I'll  blow 
her  up,"  he  said,  "  but  I  won't  git  ketched  if  I 
kin  help  it."  Even  then  the  listening  corre- 
spondents found  a  second  in  which  to  marvel  that 
the  captain  had  actually  explained  his  point  of 
view  to  another  human  being. 


112  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

The  engineer  stood  blank.  Then  suddenly  he 
cried  :  "  All  right,  sir !  "  He  threw  a  hurried 
look  of  despair  at  the  correspondents,  the  deck  of 
the  Adolphus,  the  pursuing  enemy,  Cuba,  the  sky 
and  the  sea ;  he  vanished  in  the  direction  of  his 
post. 

A  correspondent  was  suddenly  regifted  with 
the  power  of  prolonged  speech.  "  Well,  you  see, 
the  game  is  up,  damn  it.  See  ?  We  can't  get 
out  of  it.  The  skipper  will  blow  up  the  whole 
bunch  before  he'll  let  his  ship  be  taken,  and  the 
Spaniards  are  gaining.  Well,  that's  what  comes 
from  going  to  war  in  an  eight-knot  tub."  He  bit- 
terly accused  himself,  the  others,  and  the  dark, 
sightless,  indifferent  world. 

This  certainty  of  coming  evil  affected  each  one 
differently.  One  was  made  garrulous ;  one  kept 
absent-mindedly  snapping  his  fingers  and  gazing 
at  the  sea ;  another  stepped  nervously  to  and  fro, 
looking  everywhere  as  if  for  employment  for  his 
mind.  As  for  Shackles  he  was  silent  and  smiling, 
but  it  was  a  new  smile  that  caused  the  lines  about 
his  mouth  to  betray  quivering  weakness.  And 
each  man  looked  at  the  others  to  discover  their 
degree  of  fear  and  did  his  best  to  conceal  his  own, 
holding  his  crackling  nerves  with  all  his  strength. 

As  the  Adolphus  rushed  on,  the  sun  suddenly 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  ADOLPHUS   113 

emerged  from  behind  grey  clouds  and  its  rays 
dealt  titanic  blows  so  that  in  a  few  minutes  the 
sea  was  a  glowing  blue  plain  with  the  golden  shine 
dancing  at  the  tips  of  the  waves.  The  coast  of 
Cuba  glowed  with  light.  The  pursuers  displayed 
detail  after  detail*  in  the  new  atmosphere.  The 
voice  of  the  cook  was  heard  in  high  vexation. 
"  Am  I  to  git  dinner  as  usual  ?  How  do  I  know  ? 
Nobody  tells  me  what  to  do?  Am  I  to  git 
dinner  as  usual  ?  " 

The  mate  answered  ferociously.  "  Of  course 
you  are  !  What  do  you  s'pose  ?  Ain't  you  the 
cook,  you  damn  fool  ?  " 

The  cook  retorted  in  a  mutinous  scream. 
"  Well,  how  would  I  know  ?  If  this  ship  is  goin' 
to  blow  up " 


II 

The  captain  called  from  the  pilot-house.  "  Mr. 
Shackles  !  Oh,  Mr.  Shackles  !  "  The  correspond- 
ent  moved  hastily  to  a  window.  "  What  is  it, 
Captain?"  The  skipper  of  the  Adolphus  raised 
a  battered  finger  and  pointed  over  the  bows. 
"  See  'er  ?  "  he  asked,  laconic  but  quietly  jubilant. 

Another  steamer  was  smoking  at  full  speed  over 
8 


114  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

the  sun-lit  seas.  A  great  billow  of  pure  white 
was  on  her  bows.  "  Great  Scott !  "  cried  Shack- 
les. "  Another  Spaniard  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  captain,  "  that  there  is  a  United 
States  cruiser !  " 

"  What  ? "  Shackles  was  dumfounded  into 
muscular  paralysis.  "  No  !  Are  you  sure  f  " 

The  captain  nodded.  "  Sure,  take  the  glass. 
See  her  ensign  ?  Two  funnels,  two  masts  with 
fighting  tops.  She  ought  to  be  the  Chancellor* 
ville" 

Shackles  choked.     "  Well,  I'm  blowed !  " 

"  Ed  !  "  said  the  captain. 

"  Yessir ! " 

"  Tell  the  chief  there  is  no  hurry." 

Shackles  suddenly  bethought  him  of  his  com- 
panions. He  dashed  to  them  and  was  full  of 
quick  scorn  of  their  gloomy  faces.  "  Hi,  brace 
up  there  !  Are  you  blind  ?  Can't  you  see  her?  " 

"See  what?" 

"  Why,  the  Chancellorville,  you  blind  mice ! " 
roared  Shackles.  "  See  'er  ?  See  'er  ?  See  'er  ?  " 

The  others  sprang,  saw,  and  collapsed.  Shack- 
les was  a  madman  for  the  purpose  of  distributing 
the  news.  "  Cook  !  "  he  shrieked.  "  Don't  you 
see  'er,  cook  ?  Good  Gawd,  man,  don't  you  see 
'er  ?  "  He  ran  to  the  lower  deck  and  howled  his 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  ADOLPHUS   Il5 

information  everywhere.  Suddenly  the  whole 
ship  smiled.  Men  clapped  each  other  on  the 
shoulder  and  joyously  shouted.  The  captain 
thrust  his  head  from  the  pilot-house  to  look  back 
at  the  Spanish  ships.  Then  he  looked  at  the 
American  cruiser.  "  Now,  we'll  see,"  he  said 
grimly  and  vindictively  to  the  mate.  "  Guess 
somebody  else  will  do  some  running,"  the  mate 
chuckled. 

The  two  gunboats  were  still  headed  hard  for 
the  Adolphus  and  she  kept  on  her  way.  The 
American  cruiser  was  coming  swiftly.  "  It's  the 
Chancellorville  !  "  cried  Shackles.  "  I  know  her  ! 
We'll  see  a  fight  at  sea,  my  boys  !  A  fight  at 
sea !  "  The  enthusiastic  correspondents  pranced 
in  Indian  revels. 

The  Chancellorville — 2000  tons — 18.6  knots — 
10  five-inch  guns — came  on  tempestuously,  sheer- 
ing the  water  high  with  her  sharp  bow.  From 
her  funnels  the  smoke  raced  away  in  driven  sheets. 
She  loomed  with  extraordinary  rapidity  like  a 
ship  bulging  and  growing  out  of  the  sea.  She 
swept  by  the  Adolphus  so  close  that  one  could 
have  thrown  a  walnut  on  board.  She  was  a  glis- 
tening grey  apparition  with  a  blood-red  water- 
line,  with  brown  gun-muzzles  and  white-clothed 
motionless  jack-tars;  and  in  her  rush  she  was 


Il6  WOUNDS   IN   THE   RAIN 

silent,  deadly  silent.  Probably  there  entered  the 
mind  of  every  man  on  board  the  Adolphus  a  feel- 
ing of  almost  idolatry  for  this  living  thing,  stern 
but,  to  their  thought,  incomparably  beautiful. 
They  would  have  cheered  but  that  each  man 
seemed  to  feel  that  a  cheer  would  be  too  puny  a 
tribute. 

It  was  at  first  as  if  she  did  not  see  the  Adolphus. 
She  was  going  to  pass  without  heeding  this  little 
vagabond  of  the  high-seas.  But  suddenly  a  mega- 
phone gaped  over  the  rail  of  her  bridge  and  a 
voice  was  heard  measuredly,  calmly  intoning. 
"  Hello—there!  Keep— well— to— the— north'ard 
— and — out  of  my — way — and  I'll — go — in — and 

— see—  what  — those — people — want "  Then 

nothing  was  heard  but  the  swirl  of  water.  In  a 
moment  the  Adolphus  was  looking  at  a  high  grey 
stern.  On  the  quarter-deck,  sailors  were  poised 
about  the  breach  of  the  after-pivot-gun. 

The  correspondents  were  revelling.  "  Cap- 
tain," yelled  Shackles,  "  we  can't  miss  this  !  We 
must  see  it !  "  But  the  skipper  had  already  flung 
over  the  wheel.  "  Sure,"  he  answered  almost  at 
once.  "  We  can't  miss  it." 

The  cook  was  arrogantly,  grossly  triumphant. 
His  voice  rang  along  the  deck.  "  There,  now ! 
How  will  the  Spinachers  like  that  ?  Now,  it's 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  ADOLPHUS 

our  turn  !  We've  been  doin'  therunnin'  away  but 
now  we'll  do  the  chasin'  !  "  Apparently  feeling 
some  twinge  of  nerves  from  the  former  strain,  he 
suddenly  demanded :  "  Say,  who's  got  any  whis- 
ky ?  I'm  near  dead  for  a  drink." 

When  the  Adolphus  came  about,  she  laid  her 
course  for  a  position  to  the  northward  of  a  com- 
ing battle,  but  the  situation  suddenly  became 
complicated.  When  the  Spanish  ships  discovered 
the  identity  of  the  ship  that  was  steaming  toward 
them,  they  did  not  hesitate  over  their  plan  of 
action.  With  one  accord  they  turned  and  ran  for 
port.  Laughter  arose  from  the  Adolphus.  The 
captain  broke  his  orders,  and,  instead  of  keeping 
to  the  northward,  he  headed  in  the  wake  of  the 
impetuous  Ckancellorville.  The  correspondents 
crowded  on  the  bow. 

The  Spaniards  when  their  broadsides  became 
visible  were  seen  to  be  ships  of  no  importance, 
mere  little  gunboats  for  work  in  the  shallows 
back  of  the  reefs,  and  it  was  certainly  discreet  to 
refuse  encounter  with  the  five-inch  guns  of  the 
Chance llorville.  But  the  joyful  Adolphus  took 
no  account  of  this  discretion.  The  pursuit  of  the 
Spaniards  had  been  so  ferocious  that  the  quick 
change  to  heels-overhead  flight  filled  that  cor- 
ner  of  the  mind  which  is  devoted  to  the  spirit  of 


Il8  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

revenge.  It  was  this  that  moved  Shackles  to  yell 
taunts  futilely  at  the  far-away  ships.  "  Well,  how 
do  you  like  it,  eh  ?  How  do  you  like  it  ?  "  The 
Adolphus  was  drinking  compensation  for  her  pre- 
vious agony. 

The  mountains  of  the  shore  now  shadowed  high 
into  the  sky  and  the  square  white  houses  of  a 
town  could  be  seen  near  a  vague  cleft  which 
seemed  to  mark  the  entrance  to  a  port.  The 
gunboats  were  now  near  to  it. 

Suddenly  white  smoke  streamed  from  the  bow 
of  the  Chancellorville  and  developed  swiftly  into 
a  great  bulb  which  drifted  in  fragments  down  the 
wind.  Presently  the  deep-throated  boom  of  the 
gun  came  to  the  ears  on  board  the  Adolphus. 
The  shot  kicked  up  a  high  jet  of  water  into  the 
air  astern  of  the  last  gunboat.  The  black  smoke 
from  the  funnels  of  the  cruiser  made  her  look  like 
a  collier  on  fire,  and  in  her  desperation  she  tried 
many  more  long  shots,  but  presently  the  Adolphus, 
murmuring  disappointment,  saw  the  Chancellor- 
ville  sheer  from  the  chase. 

In  time  they  came  up  with  her  and  she  was  an 
indignant  ship.  Gloom  and  wrath  was  on  the 
forecastle  and  wrath  and  gloom  was  on  the  quar- 
ter-deck. A  sad  voice  from  the  bridge  said : 
"  Just  missed  'em."  Shackles  gained  permission 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  ADOLPHUS   1 19 

to  board  the  cruiser,  and  in  the  cabin,  he  talked 
to  Lieutenant-Commander  Surrey,  tall,  bald- 
headed  and  angry.  "  Shoals,"  said  the  captain 
of  the  Chancellorville.  "  I  can't  go  any  nearer 
and  those  gunboats  could  steam  along  a  stone 
sidewalk  if  only  it  was  wet."  Then  his  bright 
eyes  became  brighter.  "  I  tell  you  what !  The 
Chicken,  the  Holy  Moses  and  the  Mongolian  are 
on  station  off  Nuevitas.  If  you  will  do  me  a 
favour — why,  to-morrow  I  will  give  those  people 
a  game ! " 

III. 

The  Chancellorville  lay  all  night  watching  off 
the  port  of  the  two  gunboats  and,  soon  after  day- 
light, the  lookout  descried  three  smokes  to  trie 
westward  and  they  were  later  made  out  to  be  the 
Chicken,  the  Holy  Moses  and  the  Adolphus,  the 
latter  tagging  hurriedly  after  the  United  States 
vessels. 

The  Chicken  had  been  a  harbour  tug  but  she  was 
now  the  U.  S.  S.  Chicken,  by  your  leave.  She 
carried  a  six-pounder  forward  and  a  six-pounder 
aft  and  her  main  point  was  her  conspicuous  vul- 
nerability. The  Holy  Moses  had  been  the  private 
yacht  of  a  Philadelphia  millionaire.  She  carried 


120  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

six  six-pounders  and  her  main  point  was  the  chaste 
beauty  of  the  officer's  quarters. 

On  the  bridge  of  the  Chancellor  ville.  Lieutenant- 
Commander  Surrey  surveyed  his  squadron  with 
considerable  satisfaction.  Presently  he  signalled 
to  the  lieutenant  who  commanded  the  Holy 
Moses  and  to  the  boatswain  who  commanded  the 
Chicken  to  come  aboard  the  flag-ship.  This  was 
all  very  well  for  the  captain  of  the  yacht,  but  it 
was  not  so  easy  for  the  captain  of  the  tug-boat 
who  had  two  heavy  lifeboats  swung  fifteen  feet 
above  the  water.  He  had  been  accustomed  to 
talking  with  senior  officers  from  his  own  pilot 
house  through  the  intercession  of  the  blessed 
megaphone.  However  he  got  a  lifeboat  over- 
side and  was  pulled  to  the  Chancellor  ville  by  three 
men — which  cut  his  crew  almost  into  halves. 

In  the  cabin  of  the  Chancellor  ville,  Surrey  dis- 
closed to  his  two  captains  his  desires  concerning 
the  Spanish  gunboats  and  they  were  glad  for 
being  ordered  down  from  the  Nuevitas  station 
where  life  was  very  dull.  He  also  announced  that 
there  was  a  shore  battery  containing,  he  believed, 
four  field  guns — three-point-twos.  His  draught — 
he  spoke  of  it  as  his  draught — would  enable  him 
to  go  in  close  enough  to  engage  the  battery  at 
moderate  range,  but  he  pointed  out  that  the  main 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  ADOLPHUS   121 

parts  of  the  attempt  to  destroy  the  Spanish  gun- 
boats must  be  left  to  the  Holy  Moses  and  the 
Chicken.  His  business,  he  thought,  could  only 
be  to  keep  the  air  so  singing  about  the  ears  of  the 
battery  that  the  men  at  the  guns  would  be  unable 
to  take  an  interest  in  the  dash  of  the  smaller 
American  craft  into  the  bay. 

The  officers  spoke  in  their  turns.  The  captain 
of  the  Chicken  announced  that  he  saw  no  diffi- 
culties. The  squadron  would  follow  the  senior 
officer  in  line  ahead,  the  S.  O.  would  engage  the 
batteries  as  soon  as  possible,  she  would  turn  to 
starboard  when  the  depth  of  water  forced  her  to 
do  so  and  the  Holy  Moses  and  the  Chicken  would 
run  past  her  into  the  bay  and  fight  the  Spanish 
ships  wherever  they  were  to  be  found.  The 
captain  of  the  Holy  Moses  after  some  moments 
of  dignified  thought  said  that  he  had  no  sugges- 
tions to  make  that  would  better  this  plan. 

Surrey  pressed  an  electric  bell  ;  a  marine  orderly 
appeared  ;  he  was  sent  with  a  message.  The 
message  brought  the  navigating  officer  of  the 
Chancellorville  to  the  cabin  and  the  four  men 
nosed  over  a  chart. 

In  the  end  Surrey  declared  that  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  and  the  juniors  remained  in  expect- 
ant silence  for  three  minutes  while  he  stared  at 


122  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

the  bulkhead.  Then  he  said  that  the  plan  of  the 
Chicken's  captain  seemed  to  him  correct  in  the 
main.  He  would  make  one  change.  It  was  that 
he  should  first  steam  in  and  engage  the  battery 
and  the  other  vessels  should  remain  in  their  pres- 
ent positions  until  he  signalled  them  to  run  into 
the  bay.  If  the  squadron  steamed  ahead  in  line, 
the  battery  could,  if  it  chose,  divide  its  fire  be- 
tween the  cruiser  and  the  gunboats  constituting 
the  more  important  attack.  He  had  no  doubt, 
he  said,  that  he  could  soon  silence  the  battery  by 
tumbling  the  earth-works  on  to  the  guns  and 
driving  away  the  men  even  if  he  did  not  succeed 
in  hitting  the  pieces.  Of  course  he  had  no  doubt 
of  being  able  to  silence  the  battery  in  twenty 
minutes.  Then  he  would  signal  for  the  Holy 
Moses  and  the  Chicken  to  make  their  rush,  and  of 
course  he  would  support  them  with  his  fire  as 
much  as  conditions  enabled  him.  He  arose  then 
indicating  that  the  conference  was  at  an  end.  In 
the  few  moments  more  that  all  four  men  remained 
in  the  cabin,  the  talk  changed  its  character  com- 
pletely. It  was  now  unofficial,  and  the  sharp 
badinage  concealed  furtive  affections,  Academy 
friendships,  the  feelings  of  old-time  ship-mates, 
hiding  everything  under  a  veil  of  jokes.  "  Well, 
good  luck  to  you,  old  boy  !  Don't  get  that  val- 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  ADOLPHUS   123 

uable  packet  of  yours  sunk  under  you.  Think 
how  it  would  weaken  the  navy.  Would  you  mind 
buying  me  three  pairs  of  pajamas  in  the  town 
yonder  ?  If  your  engines  get  disabled,  tote  her 
under  your  arm.  You  can  do  it.  Good-bye,  old 

man,  don't  forget  to  come  out  all  right " 

When  the  captains  of  the  Holy  Moses  and  the 
the  Chicken  emerged  from  the  cabin,  they  strode 
the  deck  with  a  new  step.  They  were  proud 
men.  The  marine  on  duty  above  their  boats 
looked  at  them  curiously  and  with  awe.  He  de- 
tected something  which  meant  action,  conflict, 
The  boats'  crews  saw  it  also.  As  they  pulled  their 
steady  stroke,  they  studied  fleetingly  the  face  of 
the  officer  in  the  stern  sheets.  In  both  cases  they 
perceived  a  glad  man  and  yet  a  man  filled  with  a 
profound  consideration  of  the  future. 


IV 

A  bird-like  whistle  stirred  the  decks  of  the 
Chancellorville.  It  was  followed  by  the  hoarse 
bellowing  of  the  boatswain's  mate.  As  the  cruiser 
turned  her  bow  toward  the  shore,  she  happened 
to  steam  near  the  Adolphus.  The  usual  calm 
voice  hailed  the  despatch  boat.  "  Keep — that — 


124  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

gauze  under-shirt  of  yours — well — out  of  the — 
line  of  fire." 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir  !  " 

The  cruiser  then  moved  slowly  toward  the 
shore,  watched  by  every  eye  in  the  smaller  Amer- 
ican vessels.  She  was  deliberate  and  steady,  and 
this  was  reasonable  even  to  the  impatience  of  the 
other  craft  because  the  wooded  shore  was  likely 
to  suddenly  develop  new  factors.  Slowly  she 
swung  to  starboard  ;  smoke  belched  over  her  and 
the  roar  of  a  gun  came  along  the  water. 

The  battery  was  indicated  by  a  long  thin  streak 
of  yellow  earth.  The  first  shot  went  high,  plough- 
ing the  chaparral  on  the  hillside.  The  Chancel- 
lorville  wore  an  air  for  a  moment  of  being  deep  in 
meditation.  She  flung  another  shell,  which  landed 
squarely  on  the  earth-work,  making  a  great  dun 
cloud.  Before  the  smoke  had  settled,  there  was 
a  crimson  flash  from  the  battery.  To  the  watchers 
at  sea,  it  was  smaller  than  a  needle.  The  shot 
made  a  geyser  of  crystal  water,  four  hundred  yards 
from  the  Chancellorville. 

The  cruiser,  having  made  up  her  mind,  suddenly 
went  at  the  battery,  hammer  and  tongs.  She 
moved  to  and  fro  casually,  but  the  thunder  of  her 
guns  was  gruff  and  angry.  Sometimes  she  was 
quite  hidden  in  her  own  smoke,  but  with  exceed- 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  ADOLPHUS   125 

ing  regularity  the  earth  of  the  battery  spurted 
into  the  air.  The  Spanish  shells,  for  the  most 
part,  went  high  and  wide  of  the  cruiser,  jetting  the 
water  far  away. 

Once  a  Spanish  gunner  took  a  festive  side-show 
chance  at  the  waiting  group  of  the  three  nonde- 
scripts. .  It  went  like  a  flash  over  the  Adolphus, 
singing  a  wistful  metallic  note.  Whereupon  the 
Adolphus  broke  hurriedly  for  the  open  sea,  and 
men  on  the  Holy  Moses  and  the  Chicken  laughed 
hoarsely  and  cruelly.  The  correspondents  had 
been  standing  excitedly  on  top  of  the  pilot-house, 
but  at  the  passing  of  the  shell,  they  promptly 
eliminated  themselves  by  dropping  with  a  thud  to 
the  deck  below.  The  cook  again  was  giving 
tongue.  "  Oh,  say,  this  won't  do  !  I'm  damned 
if  it  will !  We  ain't  no  armoured  cruiser,  you 
know.  If  one  of  them  shells  hits  us — well,  we 
finish  right  there.  'Tain't  like  as  if  it  was  our 
business,  foolin'  'round  within  the  range  of  them 
guns.  There's  no  sense  in  it.  Them  other  fel- 
lows don't  seem  to  mind  it,  but  it's  their  business. 
If  it's  your  business,  you  go  ahead  and  do  it,  but 
if  it  ain't,  you — look  at  that,  would  you  !  " 

The  Chancellorville  had  sent  up  a  spread  of 
flags,  and  the  Holy  Moses  and  the  Chicken  were 
steaming  in. 


126  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 


They,  on  the  Chance llorville,  sometimes  could 
see  into  the  bay,  and  they  perceived  the  enemy's 
gunboats  moving  out  as  if  to  give  battle.  Surrey 
feared  that  this  impulse  would  not  endure  or  that 
it  was  some  mere  pretence  for  the  edification  of 
the  town's  people  and  the  garrison,  so  he  hastily 
signalled  the  Holy  Moses  and  the  Chicken  to  go 
in.  Thankful  for  small  favours,  they  came  on  like 
charging  bantams.  The  battery  had  ceased  firing. 
As  the  two  auxiliaries  passed  under  the  stern  of 
the  cruiser,  the  megaphone  hailed  them.  "  You 
— will — see — the — en — em — y — soon  — as — you — 
round — the — point.  A — fine — chance.  Good — 
luck." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Spanish  gunboats  had 
not  been  informed  of  the  presence  of  the  Holy 
Moses  and  the  Chicken  off  the  bar,  and  they  were 
just  blustering  down  the  bay  over  the  protective 
shoals  to  make  it  appear  that  they  scorned  the 
Chance  llorville.  But  suddenly,  from  around  the 
point,  there  burst  into  view  a  steam  yacht,  closely 
followed  by  a  harbour  tug.  The  gunboats  took 
one  swift  look  at  this  horrible  sight  and  fled 
screaming. 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  ADOLPHUS   127 

Lieutenant  Reigate,  commanding  the  Holy 
Moses,  had  under  his  feet  a  craft  that  was  capable 
of  some  speed,  although  before  a  solemn  tribunal, 
one  would  have  to  admit  that  she  conscientiously 
belied  almost  everything  that  the  contractors  had 
said  of  her,  originally.  Boatswain  Pent,  command- 
ing the  Chicken,  was  in  possession  of  an  utterly 
different  kind.  The  Holy  Moses  was  an  antelope  ; 
the  Chicken  was  a  man  who  could  carry  a  piano 
on  his  back.  In  this  race  Pent  had  the  mortifica- 
tion of  seeing  his  vessel  outstripped  badly. 

The  entrance  of  the  two  American  craft  had 
had  a  curious  effect  upon  the  shores  of  the  bay. 
Apparently  everyone  had  slept  in  the  assurance 
that  the  Chancellorville  could  not  cross  the  bar, 
and  that  the  Chancellorville  was  the  only  hostile 
ship.  Consequently,  the  appearance  of  the  Holy 
Moses  and  the  Chicken,  created  a  curious  and  com- 
plete emotion.  Reigate,  on  the  bridge  of  the 
Holy  Moses,  laughed  when  he  heard  the  bugles 
shrilling  and  saw  through  his  glasses  the  wee 
figures  of  men  running  hither  and  thither  on  the 
shore.  It  was  the  panic  of  the  china  when  the 
bull  entered  the  shop.  The  whole  bay  was  bright 
with  sun.  Every  detail  of  the  shore  was  plain. 
From  a  brown  hut  abeam  of  the  Holy  Moses, 
some  little  men  ran  out  waving  their  arms  and 


128  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

turning  their  tiny  faces  to  look  at  the  enemy. 
Directly  ahead,  some  four  miles,  appeared  the 
scattered  white  houses  of  a  town  with  a  wharf,  and 
some  schooners  in  front  of  it.  The  gunboats  were 
making  for  the  town.  There  was  a  stone  fort  on 
the  hill  overshadowing,  but  Reigate  conjectured 
that  there  was  no  artillery  in  it. 

There  was  a  sense  of  something  intimate  and 
impudent  in  the  minds  of  the  Americans.  It  was 
like  climbing  over  a  wall  and  fighting  a  man  in 
his  own  garden.  It  was  not  that  they  could  be  in 
any  wise  shaken  in  their  resolve  ;  it  was  simply 
that  the  overwhelmingly  Spanish  aspect  of  things 
made  them  feel  like  gruff  intruders.  Like  many 
of  the  emotions  of  war-time,  this  emotion  had 
nothing  at  all  to  do  with  war. 

Reigate's  only  commissioned  subordinate  called 
up  from  the  bow  gun.  "  May  I  open  fire,  sir  ?  I 
think  I  can  fetch  that  last  one." 

"Yes."  Immediately  the  six-pounder  crashed, 
and  in  the  air  was  the  spinning-wire  noise  of  the 
flying  shot.  It  struck  so  close  to  the  last  gunboat 
that  it  appeared  that  the  spray  went  aboard.  The 
swift-handed  men  at  the  gun  spoke  of  it.  "  Gave  'm 
a  bath  that  time  anyhow.  First  one  they've  ever 
had.  Dry  'em  off  this  time,  Jim."  The  young 
ensign  said  :  "  Steady."  And  so  the  Holy  Moses 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  ADOLPHUS   I2Q 

raced  in,  firing,  until  the  whole  town,  fort,  water- 
front, and  shipping  were  as  plain  as  if  they  had  been 
done  on  paper  by  a  mechanical  draftsman.  The 
gunboats  were  trying  to  hide  in  the  bosom  of  the 
town.  One  was  frantically  tying  up  to  the  wharf 
and  the  other  was  anchoring  within  a  hundred 
yards  of  the  shore.  The  Spanish  infantry,  of 
course,  had  dug  trenches  along  the  beach,  and  sud- 
denly the  air  over  the  Holy  Moses  sung  with  bul- 
lets. The  shore-line  thrummed  with  musketry. 
Also  some  antique  shells  screamed. 


VI 

The  Chicken  was  doing  her  best.  Pent's  post- 
ure at  the  wheel  seemed  to  indicate  that  her  best 
was  about  thirty-four  knots.  In  his  eagerness  he 
was  braced  as  if  he  alone  was  taking  in  a  10,000 
ton  battleship  through  Hell  Gate. 

But  the  Chicken  was  not  too  far  in  the  rear  and 
Eent  could  see  clearly  that  he  was  to  have  no 
minor  part  to  play.  Some  of  the  antique  shells 
had  struck  the  Holy  Moses  and  he  could  see  the 
escaped  steam  shooting  up  from  her.  She  lay. 
close  inshore  and  was  lashing  out  with  four  six- 
pounders  as  if  this  was  the  last  opportunity  she 
9 


130  WOUNDS   IN   THE   RAIN 

would  have  to  fire  them.  She  had  made  the 
Spanish  gunboats  very  sick.  A  solitary  gun  on 
the  one  moored  to  the  wharf  was  from  time  to 
time  firing  wildly ;  otherwise  the  gunboats  were 
silent.  But  the  beach  in  front  of  the  town  was  a 
line  of  fire.  The  Chicken  headed  for  the  Holy 
Moses  and,  as  soon  as  possible,  the  six-pounder 
in  her  bow  began  to  crack  at  the  gunboat  moored 
to  the  wharf. 

In  the  meantime,  the  Chancellorville  prowled 
off  the  bar,  listening  to  the  firing,  anxious,  acutely 
anxious,  and  feeling  her  impotency  in  every  inch 
of  her  smart  steel  frame.  And  in  the  meantime, 
the  Adolphus  squatted  on  the  waves  and  brazenly 
waited  for  news.  One  could  thoughtfully  count 
the  seconds  and  reckon  that,  in  this  second  and 
that  second,  a  man  had  died — if  one  chose.  But 
no  one  did  it.  Undoubtedly,  the  spirit  was  that 
the  flag  should  come  away  with  honour,  honour 
complete,  perfect,  leaving  no  loose  unfinished  end 
over  which  the  Spaniards  could  erect  a  monument 
of  satisfaction,  glorification.  The  distant  guns 
boomed  to  the  ears  of  the  silent  blue-jackets  at 
their  stations  on  the  cruiser. 

The  Chicken  steamed  up  to  the  Holy  Moses 
and  took  into  her  nostrils  the  odour  of  steam,  gun- 
powder and  burnt  things.  Rifle  bullets  simply 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  ADOLPHUS   131 

steamed  over  them  both.  In  the  merest  flash  of 
time,  Pent  took  into  his  remembrance  the  body 
of  a  dead  quartermaster  on  the  bridge  of  his  con- 
sort. The  two  megaphones  uplifted  together,  but 
Pent's  eager  voice  cried  out  first. 

"  Are  you  injured,  sir  ?  " 

"  No,  not  completely.  My  engines  can  get  me 
out  after — after  we  have  sunk  those  gunboats." 
The  voice  had  been  utterly  conventional  but  it 
changed  to  sharpness.  "  Go  in  and  sink  that  gun- 
boat at  anchor." 

As  the  Chicken  rounded  the  Holy  Moses  and 
started  inshore,  a  man  called  to  him  from  the 
depths  of  finished  disgust.  "  They're  takin'  to 
their  boats,  sir."  Pent  looked  and  saw  the  men 
of  the  anchored  gunboat  lower  their  boats  and 
pull  like  mad  for  shore. 

The  Chicken,  assisted  by  the  Holy  Moses,  be- 
gan a  methodical  killing  of  the  anchored  gun- 
boat. The  Spanish  infantry  on  shore  fired  fren- 
ziedly  at  the  Chicken.  Pent,  giving  the  wheel  to 
a  waiting  sailor,  stepped  out  to  a  point  where  he 
could  see  the  men  at  the  guns.  One  bullet 
spanged  past  him  and  into  the  pilot-house.  He 
ducked  his  head  into  the  window.  "  That  hit 
you,  Murry  ?  "  he  inquired  with  interest. 

"  No,  sir,"  cheerfully  responded  the  man  at  the 
wheel. 


132  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

Pent  became  very  busy  superintending  the  fire 
of  his  absurd  battery.  The  anchored  gunboat 
simply  would  not  sink.  It  evinced  that  unnatural 
stubbornness  which  is  sometimes  displayed  by 
inanimate  objects.  The  gunboat  at  the  wharf 
had  sunk  as  if  she  had  been  scuttled  but  this 
riddled  thing  at  anchor  would  not  even  take  fire. 
Pent  began  to  grow  flurried — privately.  He  could 
not  stay  there  for  ever.  Why  didn't  the  damned 
gunboat  admit  its  destruction.  Why 

He  was  at  the  forward  gun  when  one  of  his 
engine  room  force  came  to  him  and,  after  saluting, 
said  serenely  :  "  The  men  at  the  after-gun  are  all 
down,  sir." 

It  was  one  of  those  curious  lifts  which  an  en- 
listed man,  without  in  any  way  knowing  it,  can 
give  his  officer.  The  impudent  tranquillity  of  the 
man  at  once  set  Pent  to  rights  and  the  stoker  de- 
parted admiring  the  extraordinary  coolness  of  his 
captain. 

The  next  few  moments  contained  little  but  heat, 
an  odour,  applied  mechanics  and  an  expectation  of 
death.  Pent  developed  a  fervid  and  amazed  ap- 
preciation of  the  men,  his  men,  men  he  knew  very 
well,  but  strange  men.  What  explained  them? 
He  was  doing  his  best  because  he  was  captain  of 
the  Chicken  and  he  lived  or  died  by  the  Chicken. 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  ADOLPHUS   133 

But  what  could  move  these  men  to  watch  his  eye 
in  bright  anticipation  of  his  orders  and  then  obey 
them  with  enthusiastic  rapidity  ?  What  caused 
them  to  speak  of  the  action  as  some  kind  of  a 
joke — particularly  when  they  knew  he  could  over- 
hear them  ?  What  manner  of  men  ?  And  he 
anointed  them  secretly  with  his  fullest  affection. 

Perhaps  Pent  did  not  think  all  this  during  the 
battle.  Perhaps  he  thought  it  so  soon  after  the 
battle  that  his  full  mind  became  confused  as  to 
the  time.  At  any  rate,  it  stands  as  an  expression 
of  his  feeling. 

The  enemy  had  gotten  a  field-gun  down  to  the 
shore  and  with  it  they  began  to  throw  three-inch 
shells  at  the  Chicken.  In  this  war  it  was  usual  that 
the  down-trodden  Spaniards  in  their  ignorance 
should  use  smokeless  powder  while  the  Americans, 
by  the  power  of  the  consistent  everlasting  three- 
ply,  wire-woven,  double  back-action  imbecility  of  a 
hay-seed  government,  used  powder  which  on  sea 
and  on  land  cried  their  position  to  heaven,  and, 
accordingly,  good  men  got  killed  without  reason. 
At  first,  Pent  could  not  locate  the  field-gun  at  all, 
but  as  soon  as  he  found  it,  he  ran  aft  with  one 
man  and  brought  the  after  six-pounder  again  into 
action.  He  paid  little  heed  to  the  old  gun  crew. 
One  was  lying  on  his  face  apparently  dead  ;  an- 


134  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

other  was  prone  with  a  wound  in  the  chest,  while 
the  third  sat  with  his  back  to  the  deck-house 
holding  a  smitten  arm.  This  last  one  called  out 
huskily,  "  Give  'm  hell,  sir." 

The  minutes  of  the  battle  were  either  days, 
years,  or  they  were  flashes  of  a  second.  Once 
Pent  looking  up  was  astonished  to  see  three  shell 
holes  in  the  Chickens  funnel — made  surrepti- 
tiously, so  to  speak.  .  .  .  "  If  we  don't  silence  that 
field-gun,  she'll  sink  us,  boys."  .  .  .  The  eyes  of 
the  man  sitting  with  his  back  against  the  deck- 
house were  looking  from  out  his  ghastly  face  at 
the  new  gun-crew.  He  spoke  with  the  supreme 
laziness  of  a  wounded  man.  "  Give  'm  hell."  .  .  . 
Pent  felt  a  sudden  twist  of  his  shoulder.  He  was 
wounded — slightly.  .  .  .  The  anchored  gunboat 
was  in  flames. 


VII 

PENT  took  his  little  blood-stained  tow-boat  out 
to  the  Holy  Moses.  The  yacht  was  already  under 
way  for  the  bay  entrance.  As  they  were  passing 
out  of  range  the  Spaniards  heroically  redoubled 
their  fire — which  is  their  custom.  Pent,  moving 
busily  about  the  decks,  stopped  suddenly  at  the 
door  of  the  engine-room.  His  face  was  set  and 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  ADOLPHUS   135 

his  eyes  were  steely.  He  spoke  to  one  of  the  en- 
gineers. "  During  the  action  I  saw  you  firing  at 
the  enemy  with  a  rifle.  I  told  you  once  to  stop, 
and  then  I  saw  you  at  it  again.  Pegging  away 
with  a  rifle  is  no  part  of  your  business.  I  want 
you  to  understand  that  you  are  in  trouble."  The 
humbled  man  did  not  raise  his  eyes  from  the  deck. 
Presently  the  Holy  Moses  displayed  an  anxiety  for 
the  Chicken's  health. 

"  One  killed  and  four  wounded,  sir." 
"  Have  you  enough  men  left  to  work  your  ship  ?  " 
After  deliberation,  Pent  answered  :  "  No,  sir." 
"  Shall  I  send  you  assistance  ?  " 
"  No,  sir.     I  can  get  to  sea  all  right." 
As  they  neared  the  point  they  were  edified  by 
the  sudden  appearance  of  a  serio-comic  ally.     The 
Chancellor ville  at  last  had  been  unable  to  stand 
the  strain,  and  had  sent  in  her  launch  with  an 
ensign,  five   seamen  and  a  number  of  marksmen 
marines.     She  swept  hot-foot  around  the  point, 
bent  on  terrible   slaughter ;    the  one-pounder  of 
her  bow  presented  a  formidable  appearance.     The 
Holy  Moses  and  the  Chicken  laughed  until  they 
brought  indignation  to  the  brow  of  the  young 
ensign.     But  he  forgot  it  when  with  some  of  his 
men  he  boarded  the  Chicken  to  do  what  was  pos- 
sible for  the  wounded.     The  nearest  surgeon  was 


136  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

aboard  the  Chancellorville.  There  was  absolute 
silence  on  board  the  cruiser  as  the  Holy  Moses 
steamed  up  to  report.  The  blue-jackets  listened 
with  all  their  ears.  The  commander  of  the  yacht 
spoke  slowly  into  his  megaphone  :  "  We  have — 
destroyed — the  two — gun-boats — sir."  There  was 
a  burst  of  confused  cheering  on  the  forecastle  of 
the  Chancellorville ',  but  an  officer's  cry  quelled  it. 

"  Very — good.     Will — you — come  aboard  ?  " 

Two  correspondents  were  already  on  the  deck 
of  the  cruiser.  Before  the  last  of  the  wounded 
were  hoisted  aboard  the  cruiser  the  Adolphus  was 
on  her  way  to  Key  West.  When  she  arrived  at 
that  port  of  desolation  Shackles  fled  to  file  the 
telegrams  and  the  other  correspondents  fled  to 
the  hotel  for  clothes,  good  clothes,  clean  clothes ; 
and  food,  good  food,  much  food  ;  and  drink,  much 
drink,  any  kind  of  drink. 

Days  afterward,  when  the  officers  of  the  noble 
squadron  received  the  newspapers  containing  an 
account  of  their  performance,  they  looked  at  each 
other  somewhat  dejectedly  :  "  Heroic  assault — 
grand  daring  of  Boatswain  Pent — superb  accuracy 
of  the  Holy  Moses  fire — gallant  tars  of  the  Chicken 
— their  names  should  be  remembered  as  long  as 
America  stands — terrible  losses  of  the  enemy " 

When   the  Secretary  of  the  Navy  ultimately 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  ADOLPHUS   137 

read  the  report  of  Commander  Surrey,  S.  O.  P., 
he  had  to  prick  himself  with  a  dagger  in  order  to 
remember  that  anything  at  all  out  of  the  ordinary 
had  occurred 


THE   SERGEANT'S   PRIVATE   MAD- 
HOUSE 

THE  moonlight  was  almost  steady  blue  flame 
and  all  this  radiance  was  lavished  out  upon  a  still 
lifeless  wilderness  of  stunted  trees  and  cactus 
plants.  The  shadows  lay  upon  the  ground,  pools  of 
black  and  sharply  outlined,  resembling  substances, 
fabrics,  and  not  shadows  at  all.  From  afar  came 
the  sound  of  the  sea  coughing  among  the  hollows 
in  the  coral  rock. 

The  land  was  very  empty;  one  could  easily 
imagine  that  Cuba  was  a  simple  vast  solitude ;  one 
could  wonder  at  the  moon  taking  all  the  trouble 
of  this  splendid  illumination.  There  was  no  wind  ; 
nothing  seemed  to  live. 

But  in  a  particular  large  group  of  shadows  lay 
an  outpost  of  some  forty  United  States  marines. 
If  it  had  been  possible  to  approach  them  from 
any  direction  without  encountering  one  of  their 
sentries,  one  could  have  gone  stumbling  among 
sleeping  men  and  men  who  sat  waiting,  their 
blankets  tented  over  their  heads  ;  one  would  have 
been  in  among  them  before  one's  mind  could  have 
138 


THE  SERGEANT'S  PRIVATE  MADHOUSE    139 

decided  whether  they  were  men  or  devils.  If  a 
marine  moved,  he  took  the  care  and  the  time  of 
one  who  walks  across  a  death-chamber.  The  lieu- 
tenant in  command  reached  for  his  watch  and  the 
nickel  chain  gave  forth  the  faintest  tinkling  sound. 
He  could  see  the  glistening  five  or  six  pairs  of 
eyes  that  slowly  turned  to  regard  him.  His  ser- 
geant lay  near  him  and  he  bent  his  face  down  to 
whisper.  "  Who's  on  post  behind  the  big  cactus 
plant  ?  " 

"  Dryden,"  rejoined  the  sergeant  just  over  his 
breath. 

After  a  pause  the  lieutenant  murmured  :  "  He's 
got  too  many  nerves.  I  shouldn't  have  put  him 
there."  The  sergeant  asked  if  he  should  crawl 
down  and  look  into  affairs  at  Dryden's  post.  The 
young  offieer  nodded  assent  and  the  sergeant, 
softly  cocking  his  rifle,  went  away  on  his  hands  and 
knees.  The  lieutenant  with  his  back  to  a  dwarf 
tree,  sat  watching  the  sergeant's  progress  for  the 
few  moments  that  he  could  see  him  moving  from 
one  shadow  to  another.  Afterward,  the  officer 
waited  to  hear  Dryden's  quick  but  low-voiced 
challenge,  but  time  passed  and  no  sound  came  from 
the  direction  of  the  post  behind  the  cactus  bush. 

The  sergeant,  as  he  came  nearer  and  nearer  to 
this  cactus  bush — a  number  of  peculiarly  dignified 


140  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

columns  throwing  shadows  of  inky  darkness — 
had  slowed  his  pace,  for  he  did  not  wish  to  trifle 
with  the  feelings  of  the  sentry,  and  he  was  expect- 
ing the  stern  hail  and  was  ready  with  the  immedi- 
ate answer  which  turns  away  wrath.  He  was  not 
made  anxious  by  the  fact  that  he  could  not  yet 
see  Dryden,  for  he  knew  that  the  man  would  be 
hidden  in  a  way  practised  by  sentry  marines  since 
the  time  when  two  men  had  been  killed  by  a  dis- 
ease of  excessive  confidence  on  picket.  Indeed, 
as  the  sergeant  went  still  nearer,  he  became  more 
and  more  angry.  Dryden  was  evidently  a  most 
proper  sentry. 

Finally  he  arrived  at  a  point  where  he  could  see 
Dryden  seated  in  the  shadow,  staring  into  the 
bushes  ahead  of  him,  his  rifle  ready  on  his  knee. 
The  sergeant  in  his  rage  longed  for  the  peaceful 
precincts  of  the  Washington  Marine  Barracks 
where  there  would  have  been  no  situation  to  pre- 
vent the  most  complete  non-commissioned  oratory. 
He  felt  indecent  in  his  capacity  of  a  man  able  to 
creep  up  to  the  back  of  a  G  Company  member  on 
guard  duty.  Never  mind ;  in  the  morning  back 
at  camp 

But,  suddenly,  he  felt  afraid.  There  was  some- 
thing wrong  with  Dryden.  He  remembered  old 
tales  of  comrades  creeping  out  to  find  a  picket 


THE  SERGEANT'S  PRIVATE  MADHOUSE    141 

seated  against  a  tree  perhaps,  upright  enough  but 
stone  dead.  The  sergeant  paused  and  gave  the 
inscrutable  back  of  the  sentry  a  long  stare.  Du- 
bious he  again  moved  forward.  At  three  paces, 
he  hissed  like  a  little  snake.  Dryden  did  not 
show  a  sign  of  hearing.  At  last,  the  sergeant  was 
in  a  position  from  which  he  was  able  to  reach  out 
and  touch  Dryden  on  the  arm.  Whereupon  was 
turned  to  him  the  face  of  a  man  livid  with  mad 
fright.  The  sergeant  grabbed  him  by  the  wrist 
and  with  discreet  fury  shook  him.  "  Here  !  Pull 
yourself  together ! " 

Dryden  paid  no  heed  but  turned  his  wild  face 
from  the  newcomer  to  the  ground  in  front. 
Don't  you  see  'em,  sergeant  ?  Don't  you  see  'em  ?  " 

"  Where  ?  "  whispered  the  sergeant. 

"  Ahead,  and  a  little  on  the  right  flank.  A 
reg'lar  skirmish  line.  Don't  you  see  'em  ?  " 

"  Naw,"  whispered  the  sergeant.  Dryden  be- 
gan to  shake.  He  began  moving  one  hand  from 
his  head  to  his  knee  and  from  his  knee  to  his 
head  rapidly,  in  a  way  that  is  without  explanation. 
"  I  don't  dare  fire,"  he  wept.  "  If  I  do  they'll  see 
me,  and  oh,  how  they'll  pepper  me  ! " 

The  sergeant  lying  on  his  belly,  understood  one 
thing.  Dryden  had  gone  mad.  Dryden  was  the 
March  Hare.  The  old  man  gulped  down  his  up- 


142  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

roarious  emotions  as  well  as  he  was  able  and  used 
the  most  simple  device.  "  Go,"  he  said,  "  and 
tell  the  lieutenant  while  I  cover  your  post  for 
you." 

"  No  !  They'd  see  me  !  They'd  see  me !  And 
then  they'd  pepper  me !  O,  how  they'd  pepper 
me!" 

The  sergeant  was  face  to  face  with  the  biggest 
situation  of  his  life.  In  the  first  place  he  knew 
that  at  night  a  large  or  small  force  of  Spanish 
guerillas  was  never  more  than  easy  rifle  range 
from  any  marine  outpost,  both  sides  maintaining 
a  secrecy  as  absolute  as  possible  in  regard  to  their 
real  position  and  strength.  Everything  was  on 
a  watch-spring  foundation.  A  loud  word  might 
be  paid  for  by  a  night-attack  which  would  involve 
five  hundred  men  who  needed  their  earned  sleep, 
not  to  speak  of  some  of  them  who  would  need 
their  lives.  The  slip  of  a  foot  and  the  rolling  of 
a  pint  of  gravel  might  go  from  consequence  to 
consequence  until  various  crews  went  to  general 
quarters  on  their  ships  in  the  harbour,  their  bat- 
teries booming  as  the  swift  search-light  flashes 
tore  through  the  foliage.  Men  would  get  killed 
— notably  the  sergeant  and  Dryden — and  out- 
posts would  be  cut  off  and  the  whole  night  would 
be  one  pitiless  turmoil.  And  so  Sergeant  George 


THE  SERGEANT'S  PRIVATE  MADHOUSE  143 

H.  Peasley  began  to  run  his  private  madhouse 
behind  the  cactus-bush. 

"  Dryden,"  said  the  sergeant,  "you  do  as  I  tell 
you  and  go  tell  the  lieutenant." 

"  I  don't  dare  move,"  shivered  the  man. 
"They'll  see  me  if  I  move.  They'll  see  me. 
They're  almost  up  now.  Let's  hide " 

"  Well,  then  you  stay  here  a  moment  and  I'll 
go  and " 

Dryden  turned  upon  him  a  look  so  tigerish  that 
the  old  man  felt  his  hair  move.  "  Don't  you 
stir,"  he  hissed.  "  You  want  to  give  me  away. 
You  want  them  to  see  me.  Don't  you  stir."  The 
sergeant  decided  not  to  stir. 

He  became  aware  of  the  slow  wheeling  of 
eternity,  its  majestic  incomprehensibility  of  move- 
ment. Seconds,  minutes,  were  quaint  little 
things,  tangible  as  toys,  and  there  were  billions  of 
them,  all  alike.  "  Dryden,"  he  whispered  at  the 
end  of  a  century  in  which,  curiously,  he  had 
never  joined  the  marine  corps  at  all  but  had  taken 
to  another  walk  of  life  and  prospered  greatly  in 
it.  "  Dryden,  this  is  all  foolishness."  He  thought 
of  the  expedient  of  smashing  the  man  over  the 
head  with  his  rifle,  but  Dryden  was  so  superna- 
turally  alert  that  there  surely  would  issue  some 
small  scuffle  and  there  could  be  not  even  the 


144  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

fraction  of  a  scuffle.  The  sergeant  relapsed  into 
the  contemplation  of  another  century. 

His  patient  had  one  fine  virtue.  He  was  in 
such  terror  of  the  phantom  skirmish  line  that  his 
voice  never  went  above  a  whisper,  whereas  his  de- 
lusion might  have  expressed  itself  in  hyena  yells 
and  shots,  from  his  rifle.  The  sergeant,  shudder- 
ing, had  visions  of  how  it  might  have  been — the 
mad  private  leaping  into  the  air  and  howling  and 
shooting  at  his  friends  and  making  them  the 
centre  of  the  enemy's  eager  attention.  This,  to 
his  mind,  would  have  been  conventional  conduct 
for  a  maniac.  The  trembling  victim  of  an  idea 
was  somewhat  puzzling.  The  sergeant  decided 
that  from  time  to  time  he  would  reason  with  his 
patient.  "  Look  here,  Dryden,  you  don't  see 
any  real  Spaniards.  You've  been  drinking  or — 
something.  Now " 

But  Dryden  only  glared  him  into  silence.  Dry- 
den  was  inspired  with  such  a  profound  contempt 
of  him  that  it  was  become  hatred.  "  Don't  you 
stir!"  And  it  was  clear  that  if  the  sergeant  did 
stir,  the  mad  private  would  introduce  calamity. 
"  Now,"  said  Peasley  to  himself,  "  if  those  guer- 
illas should  take  a  crack  at  us  to-night,  they'd  find 
a  lunatic  asylum  right  in  the  front  and  it  would 
be  astonishing." 


THE  SERGEANT'S  PRIVATE  MADHOUSE  145 

The  silence  of  the  night  was  broken  by  the 
quick  low  voice  of  a  sentry  to  the  left  some  dis- 
tance. The  breathless  stillness  brought  an  effect 
to  the  words  as  if  they  had  been  spoken  in  one's 
ear. 

"  Halt— who  s  there— halt  or  P II  fire  !  "    Bang  ! 

At  the  moment  of  sudden  attack  particularly  at 
night,  it  is  improbable  that  a  man  registers  much 
detail  of  either  thought  or  action.  He  may  after- 
ward say  :  "  I  was  here."  He  may  say  :  "  I  was 
there."  "  I  did  this."  "  I  did  that."  But  there 
remains  a  great  incoherency  because  of  the  tumult- 
uous thought  which  seethes  through  the  head. 
"  Is  this  defeat  ?  "  At  night  in  a  wilderness  and 
against  skilful  foes  half-seen,  one  does  not  trouble 
to  ask  if  it  is  also  Death.  Defeat  is  Death,  then, 
save  for  the  miraculous.  But  the  exaggerating 
magnifying  first  thought  subsides  in  the  ordered 
mind  of  the  soldier  and  he  knows,  soon,  what  he 
is  doing  and  how  much  of  it.  The  sergeant's  im- 
mediate impulse  had  been  to  squeeze  close  to  the 
ground  and  listen — listen — above  all  else,  listen. 
But  the  next  moment  he  grabbed  his  private  asy- 
lum by  the  scruff  of  its  neck,  jerked  it  to  its  feet 
and  started  to  retreat  upon  the  main  outpost. 

To  the  left,  rifle-flashes  were  bursting  from  the 

shadows.     To  the  rear,  the  lieutenant  was  giving 
10 


146  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

some  hoarse  order  or  admonition.  Through  the 
air  swept  some  Spanish  bullets,  very  high,  as  if 
they  had  been  fired  at  a  man  in  a  tree.  The  pri- 
vate asylum  came  on  so  hastily  that  the  sergeant 
found  he  could  remove  his  grip,  and  soon  they 
were  in  the  midst  of  the  men  of  the  outpost. 
Here  there  was  no  occasion  for  enlightening  the 
lieutenant.  In  the  first  place  such  surprises  re- 
quired statement,  question  and  answer.  It  is  im- 
possible to  get  a  grossly  original  and  fantastic 
idea  through  a  man's  head  in  less  than  one 
minute  of  rapid  talk,  and  the  sergeant  knew 
the  lieutenant  could  not  spare  the  minute.  He 
himself  had  no  minutes  to  devote  to  anythingbut 
the  business  of  the  outpost.  And  the  madman 
disappeared  from  his  pen  and  he  forgot  about 
him. 

It  was  a  long  night  and  the  little  fight  was  as 
long  as  the  night.  It  was  a  heart-breaking  work. 
The  forty  marines  lay  in  an  irregular  oval.  From 
all  sides,  the  Mauser  bullets  sang  low  and  hard. 
Their  occupation  was  to  prevent  a  rush,  and  to 
this  end  they  potted  carefully  at  the  flash  of  a 
Mauser — save  when  they  got  excited  for  a  moment, 
in  which  case  their  magazines  rattled  like  a  great 
Waterbury  watch.  Then  they  settled  again  to  a 
systematic  potting. 


THE   SERGEANTS   PRIVATE    MADHOUSE    147 

The  enemy  were  not  of  the  regular  Spanish 
forces.  They  were  of  a  corps  of  guerillas,  native- 
born  Cubans,  who  preferred  the  flag  of  Spain. 
They  were  all  men  who  knew  the  craft  of  the 
woods  and  were  all  recruited  from  the  district. 
They  fought  more  like  red  Indians  than  any  peo- 
ple but  the  red  Indians  themselves.  Each  seemed 
to  possess  an  individuality,  a  fighting  individuality, 
which  is  only  found  in  the  highest  order  of  irreg- 
ular soldiers.  Personally  they  were  as  distinct 
as  possible,  but  through  equality  of  knowledge ' 
and  experience,  they  arrived  at  concert  of  action. 
So  long  as  they  operated  in  the  wilderness,  they 
were  formidable  troops.  It  mattered  little  whether 
it  was  daylight  or  dark  ;  they  were  mainly  invis- 
ible. They  had  schooled  from  the  Cubans  insur- 
gent to  Spain.  As  the  Cubans  fought  the  Spanish 
troops,  so  would  these  particular  Spanish  troops 
fight  the  Americans.  It  was  wisdom. 

The  marines  thoroughly  understood  the  game. 
They  must  lie  close  and  fight  until  daylight  when 
the  guerillas  promptly  would  go  away.  They 
had  withstood  other  nights  of  this  kind,  and  now 
their  principal  emotion  was  probably  a  sort  of 
frantic  annoyance. 

Back  at  the  main  camp,  whenever  the  roaring 
volleys  lulled,  the  men  in  the  trenches  could  hear 


148  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

their  comrades  of  the  outpost,  and  the  guerillas 
pattering  away  interminably.  The  moonlight 
faded  and  left  an  equal  darkness  upon  the  wilder- 
ness. A  man  could  barely  see  the  comrade  at  his 
side.  Sometimes  guerillas  crept  so  close  that 
the  flame  from  their  rifles  seemed  to  scorch  the 
faces  of  the  marines,  and  the  reports  sounded  as 
if  from  two  or  three  inches  of  their  very  noses. 
If  a  pause  came,  one  could  hear  the  guerillas  gab- 
bling to  each  other  in  a  kind  of  drunken  delirium. 
The  lieutenant  was  praying  that  the  ammunition 
would  last.  Everybody  was  praying  for  daybreak. 
A  black  hour  came  finally,  when  the  men  were 
not  fit  to  have  their  troubles  increased.  The 
enemy  made  a  wild  attack  on  one  portion  of  the 
oval,  which  was  held  by  about  fifteen  men.  The 
remainder  of  the  force  was  busy  enough,  and  the 
fifteen  were  naturally  left  to  their  devices.  Amid 
the  whirl  of  it,  a  loud  voice  suddenly  broke  out  in 
song: 

"  When  shepherds  guard  their  flocks  by  night, 

All  seated  on  the  ground, 
An  angel  of  the  Lord  came  down 
And  glory  shone  around." 

"  Who  the  hell  is  that  ?  "  demanded  the  lieu- 
tenant  from  a  throat  full  of  smoke.  There  was 
almost  a  full  stop  of  the  firing.  The  Americans 


THE  SERGEANTS    PRIVATE    MADHOUSE      149 

were  somewhat  puzzled.  Practical  ones  muttered 
that  the  fool  should  have  a  bayonet-hilt  shoved 
down  his  throat.  Others  felt  a  thrill  at  the  strange- 
ness  of  the  thing.  Perhaps  it  was  a  sign  ! 

"  The  minstrel  boy  to  the  war  has  gone, 

In  the  ranks  of  death  you'll  find  him, 
His  father's  sword  he  has  girded  on 
And  his  wild  harp  slung  behind  him." 

This  croak  was  as  lugubrious  as  a  coffin.  "  Who 
is  it  ?  Who  is  it  ? "  snapped  the  lieutenant. 
"  Stop  him,  somebody." 

"  It's  Dryden,  sir,"  said  old  Sergeant  Peasley,  as 
he  felt  around  in  the  darkness  for  his  madhouse. 
"  I  can't  find  him— yet." 

"  Please,  O,  please,  O,  do  not  let  me  fall ; 
You're — gurgh-ugh " 

The  sergeant  had  pounced  upon  him. 

This  singing  had  had  an  effect  upon  the  Span- 
iards. At  first  they  had  fired  frenziedly  at  the 
voice,  but  they  soon  ceased,  perhaps  from  sheer 
amazement.  Both  sides  took  a  spell  of  meditation. 

The  sergeant  was  having  some  difficulty  with 
his  charge.  "  Here,  you,  grab  'im.  Take  'im  by 
the  throat.  Be  quiet,  you  devil." 

One  of  the  fifteen  men,  who  had  been  hard- 
pressed,  called  out,  "  We've  only  got  about  one 
clip  a-piece,  Lieutenant.  If  they  come  again " 


150  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

The  lieutenant  crawled  to  and  fro  among  his 
men,  taking  clips  of  cartridges  from  those  who 
had  many.  He  came  upon  the  sergeant  and  his 
madhouse.  He  felt  Dryden's  belt  and  found  it 
simply  stuffed  with  ammunition.  He  examined 
Dryden's  rifle  and  found  in  it  a  full  clip.  The 
madhouse  had  not  fired  a  shot.  The  lieutenant 
distributed  these  valuable  prizes  among  the  fifteen 
men.  As  the  men  gratefully  took  them,  one  said  : 
"  If  they  had  come  again  hard  enough,  they  would 
have  had  us,  sir, — maybe." 

But  the  Spaniards  did  not  come  again.  At  the 
first  indication  of  daybreak,  they  fired  their  cus- 
tomary good-bye  volley.  The  marines  lay  tight 
while  the  slow  dawn  crept  over  the  land.  Finally 
the  lieutenant  arose  among  them,  and  he  was  a 
bewildered  man,  but  very  angry.  "  Now  where 
is  that  idiot,  Sergeant  ?  " 

"  Here  he  is,  sir/'  said  the  old  man  cheerfully. 
He  was  seated  on  the  ground  beside  the  recumbent 
Dryden  who,  with  an  innocent  smile  on  his  face, 
was  sound  asleep. 

"  Wake  him  up,"  said  the  lieutenant  briefly. 

The  sergeant  shook  the  sleeper.  "  Here,  Min- 
strel Boy,  turn  out.  The  lieutenant  wants  you." 

Dryden  climbed  to  his  feet  and  saluted  the 
officer  with  a  dazed  and  childish  air.  (<  Yes,  sir/' 


THE  SERGEANT'S  PRIVATE  MADHOUSE  151 

The  lieutenant  was  obviously  having  difficulty 
in  governing  his  feelings,  but  he  managed  to  say 
with  calmness,  "  You  seem  to  be  fond  of  singing, 
Dryden  ?  Sergeant,  see  if  he  has  any  whisky  on 
him." 

"  Sir  ?  "  said  the  madhouse  stupefied.  "  Sing- 
ing— fond  of  singing  ?  " 

Here  the  sergeant  interposed  gently,  and  he 
and  the  lieutenant  held  palaver  apart  from  the 
others.  The  marines,  hitching  more  comfortably 
their  almost  empty  belts,  spoke  with  grins  of  the 
madhouse.  "  Well,  the  Minstrel  Boy  made  'em 
clear  out.  They  couldn't  stand  it.  But — I 
wouldn't  want  to  be  in  his  boots.  He'll  see  fire- 
works when  the  old  man  interviews  him  on  the 
uses  of  grand  opera  in  modern  warfare.  How  do 
you  think  he  managed  to  smuggle  a  bottle  along 
without  us  finding  it  out  ?  " 

When  the  weary  outpost  was  relieved  and 
marched  back  to  camp,  the  men  could  not  rest 
until  they  had  told  a  tale  of  the  voice  in  the  wil- 
derness. In  the  meantime  the  sergeant  took 
Dryden  aboard  a  ship,  and  to  those  who  took 
charge  of  the  man,  he  defined  him  as  "  the  most 

useful crazy  man  in  £he  service  of  the 

United  States." 


VIRTUE   IN  WAR 


GATES  had  left  the  regular  army  in  1890,  those 
parts  of  him  which  had  not  been  frozen  having 
been  well  fried.  He  took  with  him  nothing  but 
an  oaken  constitution  and  a  knowledge  of  the 
plains  and  the  best  wishes  of  his  fellow-officers. 
The  Standard  Oil  Company  differs  from  the 
United  States  Government  in  that  it  understands 
the  value  of  the  loyal  and  intelligent  services  of 
good  men  and  is  almost  certain  to  reward  them 
at  the  expense  of  incapable  men.  This  curious 
practice  emanates  from  no  beneficent  emotion  of 
the  Standard  Oil  Company,  on  whose  feelings 
you  could  not  make  a  scar  with  a  hammer  and 
chisel.  It  is  simply  that  the  Standard  Oil  Com- 
pany knows  more  than  the  United  States  Govern- 
ment and  makes  use  of  virtue  whenever  virtue  is 
to  its  advantage.  In  1890  Gates  really  felt  in  his 
bones  that,  if  he  lived  a  rigorously  correct  life 
and  several  score  of  his  class-mates  and  intimate 
friends  died  off,  he  would  get  command  of  a  troop 
152 


VIRTUE    IN   WAR  153 

of  horse  by  the  time  he  was  unfitted  by  age  to  be 
an  active  cavalry  leader.  He  left  the  service  of 
the  United  States  and  entered  the  service  of  the 
Standard  Oil  Company.  In  the  course  of  time  he 
knew  that,  if  he  lived  a  rigorously  correct  life,  his 
position  and  income  would  develop  strictly  in 
parallel  with  the  worth  of  his  wisdom  and  experi- 
ence, and  he  would  not  have  to  walk  on  the  corpses 
of  his  friends. 

But  he  was  not  happier.  Part  of  his  heart  was 
in  a  barracks,  and  it  was  not  enough  to  discourse 
of  the  old  regiment  over  the  port  and  cigars  to 
ears  which  were  polite  enough  to  betray  a  languid 
ignorance.  Finally  came  the  year  1898,  and  Gates 
dropped  the  Standard  Oil  Company  as  if  it  were 
hot.  He  hit  the  steel  trail  to  Washington  and 
there  fought  the  first  serious  action  of  the  war. 
Like  most  Americans,  he  had  a  native  State,  and 
one  morning  he  found  himself  major  in  a  volun- 
teer infantry  regiment  whose  voice  had  a  peculiar 
sharp  twang  to  it  which  he  could  remember  from 
childhood.  The  colonel  welcomed  the  West 
Pointer  with  loud  cries  of  joy  ;  the  lieutenant- 
colonel  looked  at  him  with  the  pebbly  eye  of  dis- 
trust ;  and  the  senior  major,  having  had  up  to 
this  time  the  best  battalion  in  the  regiment, 
strongly  disapproved  of  him.  There  were  only 


154  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

two  majors,  so  the  lieutenant-colonel  commanded 
the  first  battalion,  which  gave  him  an  occupation. 
Lieutenant-colonels  under  the  new  rules  do  not 
always  have  occupations.  Gates  got  the  third 
battalion — four  companies  commanded  by  intelli- 
gent officers  who  could  gauge  the  opinions  of 
their  men  at  two  thousand  yards  and  govern 
themselves  accordingly.  The  battalion  was  im- 
mensely interested  in  the  new  major.  It  thought 
it  ought  to  develop  views  about  him.  It  thought 
it  was  its  blankety-blank  business  to  find  out  im- 
mediately if  it  liked  him  personally.  In  the  com- 
pany streets  the  talk  was  nothing  else.  Among 
the  non-commissioned  officers  there  were  eleven 
old  soldiers  of  the  regular  army,  and  they  knew — 
and  cared — that  Gates  had  held  commission  in  the 
"  Sixteenth  Cavalry  " — as  Harper  s  Weekly  says. 
Over  this  fact  they  rejoiced  and  were  glad,  and 
they  stood  by  to  jump  lively  when  he  took  com- 
mand. He  would  know  his  work  and  he  would 
know-/to>  work,  and  then  in  battle  there  would 
be  killed  only  what  men  were  absolutely  neces- 
sary and  the  sick  list  would  be  comparatively  free 
of  fools. 

The  commander  of  the  second  battalion  had 
been  called  by  an  Atlanta  paper,  "  Major  Rickets 
C.  Carmony,  the  commander  of  the  second  battal- 


VIRTUE    IN   WAR  155 

ion  of  the  3O7th ,  is  when  at  home  one  of  the 

biggest  wholesale  hardware  dealers  in  his  State. 
Last  evening  he  had  ice-cream,  at  his  own  ex- 
pense, served  out  at  the  regular  mess  of  the  bat- 
talion, and  after  dinner  the  men  gathered  about 
his  tent  where  three  hearty  cheers  for  the  popular 
major  were  given."  Carmony  had  bought  twelve 
copies  of  this  newspaper  and  mailed  them  home 
to  his  friends. 

In  Gates's  battalion  there  were  more  kicks  than 
ice-cream,  and  there  was  no  ice-cream  at  all.  In- 
dignation ran  high  at  the  rapid  manner  in  which 
he  proceeded  to  make  soldiers  of  them.  Some  of 
his  officers  hinted  finally  that  the  men  wouldn't 
stand  it.  They  were  saying  that  they  had  en- 
listed to  fight  for  their  country — yes,  but  they 
weren't  going  to  be  bullied  day  in  and  day  out 
by  a  perfect  stranger.  They  were  patriots,  they 
were,  and  just  as  good  men  as  ever  stepped — just 
as  good  as  Gates  or  anybody  like  him.  But,  grad- 
ually, despite  itself,  the  battalion  progressed.  The 
men  were  not  altogether  conscious  of  it.  They 
evolved  rather  blindly.  Presently  there  were 
fights  with  Carmony's  crowd  as  to  which  was  the 
better  battalion  at  drills,  and  at  last  there  was  no 
argument.  It  was  generally  admitted  that  Gates 
commanded  the  crack  battalion.  The  men, 


156  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

believing  that  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  all 
soldiering  was  in  these  drills  of  precision,  were 
somewhat  reconciled  to  their  major  when  they 
began  to  understand  more  of  what  he  was  trying 
to  do  for  them,  but  they  were  still  fiery  untamed 
patriots  of  lofty  pride  and  they  resented  his  man- 
ner toward  them.  It  was  abrupt  and  sharp. 

The  time  came  when  everybody  knew  that  the 
Fifth  Army  Corps  was  the  corps  designated  for 
the  first  active  service  in  Cuba.  The  officers  and 
men  of  the  3O7th  observed  with  despair  that  their 
regiment  was  not  in  the  Fifth  Army  Corps.  The 
colonel  was  a  strategist.  He  understood  every- 
thing in  a  flash.  Without  a  moment's  hesitation 
he  obtained  leave  and  mounted  the  night  express 
for  Washington.  There  he  drove  Senators  and 
Congressmen  in  span,  tandem  and  four-in-hand. 
With  the  telegraph  he  stirred  so  deeply  the  gov- 
ernor, the  people  and  the  newspapers  of  his  State 
that  whenever  on  a  quiet  night  the  President  put 
his  head  out  of  the  White  House  he  could  hear  the 
distant  vast  commonwealth  humming  with  indig- 
nation. And  as  it  is  well  known  that  the  Chief 
Executive  listens  to  the  voice  of  the  people,  the 
307th  was  transferred  to  the  Fifth  Army  Corps. 
It  was  sent  at  once  to  Tampa,  where  it  was  bri- 
gaded with  two  dusty  regiments  of  regulars,  who 


VIRTUE    IN   WAR  1 57 

looked  at  it  calmly  and  said  nothing.  The  bri- 
gade commander  happened  to  be  no  less  a  person 
than  Gates's  old  colonel  in  the  "  Sixteenth  Cav- 
alry " — as  Harper  s  Weekly  says — and  Gates  was 
cheered.  The  old  man's  rather  solemn  look 
brightened  when  he  saw  Gates  in  the  3<D7th. 
There  was  a  great  deal  of  battering  and  pounding 
and  banging  for  the  3O7th  at  Tampa,  but  the  men 
stood  it  more  in  wonder  than  in  anger.  The  two 
regular  regiments  carried  them  along  when  they 
could,  and  when  they  couldn't  waited  impatiently 
for  them  to  come  up.  Undoubtedly  the  regulars 
wished  the  volunteers  were  in  garrison  at  Sitka, 
but  they  said  practically  nothing.  They  minded 
their  own  regiments.  The  colonel  was  an  invalu- 
able man  in  a  telegraph  office.  When  came  the 
scramble  for  transports  the  colonel  retired  to  a 
telegraph  office  and  talked  so  ably  to  Washington 
that  the  authorities  pushed  a  number  of  corps 
aside  and  made  way  for  the  3O/th,  as  if  on  it  de- 
pended everything.  The  regiment  got  one  of  the 
best  transports,  and  after  a  series  of  delays  and 
some  starts,  and  an  equal  number  of  returns,  they 
finally  sailed  for  Cuba. 


158  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

II 

Now  Gates  had  a  singular  adventure  on  the 
second  morning  after  his  arrival  at  Atlanta  to  take 
his  post  as  a  major  in  the  3O7th. 

He  was  in  his  tent,  writing,  when  suddenly  the 
flap  was  flung  away  and  a  tall  young  private 
stepped  inside. 

"  Well,  Maje,"  said  the  newcomer,  genially, 
"how  goes  it?" 

The  major's  head  flashed  up,  but  he  spoke 
without  heat. 

"  Come  to  attention  and  salute." 

"  Huh  !  "  said  the  private. 

"  Come  to  attention  and  salute." 

The  private  looked  at  him  in  resentful  amaze- 
ment,  and  then  inquired : 

"  Ye  ain't  mad,  are  ye  ?  Ain't  nothin*  to  get 
huffy  about,  is  there  ?  " 

"  I Come  to  attention  and  salute." 

"  Well,"  drawled  the  private,  as  he  stared, 
"  seein'  as  ye  are  so  darn  perticular,  I  don't  care 
if  I  do — if  it'll  make  yer  meals  set  on  yer  stomick 
any  better." 

Drawing  a  long  breath  and  grinning  ironically, 
he  lazily  pulled  his  heels  together  and  saluted 
with  a  flourish. 


VIRTUE   IN   WAR  159 

"  There,"  he  said,  with  a  return  to  his  earlier 
genial  manner.  "  How's  that  suit  ye,  Maje  ?  " 

There  was  a  silence  which  to  an  impartial  ob- 
server would  have  seemed  pregnant  with  dynamite 
and  bloody  death.  Then  the  major  cleared  his 
throat  and  coldly  said  : 

"And  now,  what  is  your  business?" 

"  Who— me?"  asked  the  private.  "  Oh,  I  just 
sorter  dropped  in."  With  a  deeper  meaning  he 
added:  "Sorter  dropped  in  in  a  friendly  way, 
thinkin'  ye  was  mebbe  a  different  kind  of  a  feller 
from  what  ye  be." 

The  inference  was  clearly  marked. 

It  was  now  Gates's  turn  to  stare,  and  stare  he 
unfeignedly  did. 

"  Go  back  to  your  quarters,"  he  said  at  length. 

The  volunteer  became  very  angry. 

"  Oh,  ye  needn't  be  so  up-in-th'-air,  need  ye  ? 
Don't  know's  I'm  dead  anxious  to  inflict  my  com- 
pany on  yer  since  I've  had  a  good  look  at  ye. 
There  may  be  men  in  this  here  battalion  what's 
had  just  as  much  edjewcation  as  you  have,  and 
I'm  damned  if  they  ain't  got  better  manners. 
Good-mornin',"  he  said,  with  dignity  ;  and,  pass- 
ing out  of  the  tent,  he  flung  the  flap  back  in  place 
with  an  air  of  slamming  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  door. 
He  made  his  way  back  to  his  company  street, 


l6o  WOUNDS   IN    THE    RAIN 

striding  high.  He  was  furious.  He  met  a  large 
crowd  of  his  comrades. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Lige  ?  "  asked  one,  who 
noted  his  temper. 

"  Oh,  nothin',"  answered  Lige,  with  terrible 
feeling.  "  Nothin'.  I  jest  been  lookin'  over  the 
new  major — that's  all." 

"  What's  he  like  ?  "  asked  another. 

"  Like  ?  "  cried  Lige.  "  He's  like  nothin'.  He 
ain't  out'n  the  same  kittle  as  us.  No.  Gawd 
made  him  all  by  himself — sep'rate.  He's  a  speshul 
produc',  he  is,  an'  he  won't  have  no  truck  with 
jest  common — men,  like  you  be." 

He  made  a  venomous  gesture  which  included 
them  all. 

"  Did  he  set  on  ye  ?  "  asked  a  soldier. 

"  Set  on  me  ?  No,"  replied  Lige,  with  contempt. 
"  I  set  on  him.  I  sized  'im  up  in  a  minute.  '  Oh, 
I  don't  know,'  I  says,  as  I  was  comin'  out ;  '  guess 
you  ain't  the  only  man  in  the  world,'  I  says." 

For  a  time  Lige  Wigram  was  quite  a  hero.  He 
endlessly  repeated  the  tale  of  his  adventure,  and 
men  admired  him  for  so  soon  taking  the  conceit 
out  of  the  new  officer.  Lige  was  proud  to  think 
of  himself  as  a  plain  and  simple  patriot  who  had 
refused  to  endure  any  high-soaring  nonsense. 

But  he  came  to  believe  that  he  had  not  dis- 


VIRTUE    IN    WAR  l6l 

turbed  the  singular  composure  of  the  major,  and 
this  concreted  his  hatred.  He  hated  Gates,  not 
as  a  soldier  sometimes  hates  an  officer,  a  hatred 
half  of  fear.  Lige  hated  as  man  to  man.  And 
he  was  enraged  to  see  that  so  far  from  gaining 
any  hatred  in  return,  he  seemed  incapable  of  mak- 
ing Gates  have  any  thought  of  him  save  as  a  unit 
in  a  body  of  three  hundred  men.  Lige  might  just 
as  well  have  gone  and  grimaced  at  the  obelisk  in 
Central  Park. 

When  the  battalion  became  the  best  in  the  regi- 
ment he  had  no  part  in  the  pride  of  the  companies. 
He  was  sorry  when  men  began  to  speak  well  of 
Gates.  He  was  really  a  very  consistent  hater. 


Ill 

The  transport  occupied  by  the  3O/th  was  com- 
manded by  some  sort  of  a  Scandinavian,  who  was 
afraid  of  the  shadows  of  his  own  topmasts.  He 
would  have  run  his  steamer  away  from  a  floating 
Gainsborough  hat,  and,  in  fact,  he  ran  her  away 
from  less  on  some  occasions.  The  officers,  wish- 
ing to  arrive  with  the  other  transports,  sometimes 
remonstrated,  and  to  them  he  talked  of  his  owners. 

Every  officer  in  the  convoying  warships  loathed 
ii 


162  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

him,  for  in  case  any  hostile  vessel  should  appear 
they  did  not  see  how  they  were  going  to  protect 
this  rabbit,  who  would  probably  manage  during  a 
fight  to  be  in  about  a  hundred  places  on  the  broad, 
broad  sea,  and  all  of  them  offensive  to  the  navy's 
plan.  When  he  was  not  talking  of  his  owners  he 
was  remarking  to  the  officers  of  the  regiment 
that  a  steamer  really  was  not  like  a  valise,  and 
that  he  was  unable  to  take  his  ship  under  his  arm 
and  climb  trees  with  it.  He  further  said  that 
"  them  naval  fellows  "  were  not  near  so  smart  as 
they  thought  they  were. 

From  an  indigo  sea  arose  the  lonely  shore  of 
Cuba.  Ultimately,  the  fleet  was  near  Santiago, 
and  most  of  the  transports  were  bidden  to  wait  a 
minute  while  the  leaders  found  out  their  minds. 
The  skipper,  to  whom  the  So/th  were  prisoners, 
waited  for  thirty  hours  half  way  between  Jamaica 
and  Cuba.  He  explained  that  the  Spanish  fleet 
might  emerge  from  Santiago  Harbour  at  any  time, 
and  he  did  not  propose  to  be  caught.  His 

owners Whereupon  the  colonel  arose  as  one 

having  nine  hundred  men  at  his  back,  and  he 
passed  up  to  the  bridge  and  he  spake  with  the 
captain.  He  explained  indirectly  that  each  in- 
dividual of  his  nine  hundred  men  had  decided  to 
be  the  first  American  soldier  to  land  for  this  cam- 


VIRTUE    IN   WAR  163 

paign,  and  that  in  order  to  accomplish  the  marvel 
it  was  necessary  for  the  transport  to  be  nearer 
than  forty-five  miles  from  the  Cuban  coast.  If 
the  skipper  would  only  land  the  regiment  the 
colonel  would  consent  to  his  then  taking  his  in- 
teresting old  ship  and  going  to  h with  it. 

And  the  skipper  spake  with  the  colonel.  He 
pointed  out  that  as  far  as  he  officially  was  con- 
cerned, the  United  States  Government  did  not 
exist.  He  was  responsible  solely  to  his  owners. 
The  colonel  pondered  these  sayings.  He  per- 
ceived that  the  skipper  meant  that  he  was  running 
his  ship  as  he  deemed  best,  in  consideration  of 
the  capital  invested  by  his  owners,  and  that  he 
was  not  at  all  concerned  with  the  feelings  of  a 
certain  American  military  expedition  to  Cuba. 
He  was  a  free  son  of  the  sea— he  was  a  sovereign 
citizen  of  the  republic  of  the  waves.  He  was  like 
Lige. 

However,  the  skipper  ultimately  incurred  the 
danger  of  taking  his  ship  under  the  terrible  guns 
of  the  New  York,  lowa^  Oregon,  Massachusetts, 
Indiana,  Brooklyn,  Texas  and  a  score  of  cruisers 
and  gunboats.  It  was  a  brave  act  for  the  captain 
of  a  United  States  transport,  and  he  was  visibly 
nervous  until  he  could  again  get  to  sea,  where  he 
offered  praises  that  the  accursed  3O/th  was  no 


164  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

longer  sitting  on  his  head.  For  almost  a  week 
he  rambled  at  his  cheerful  will  over  the  adjacent 
high  seas,  having  in  his  hold  a  great  quantity  of 
military  stores  as  successfully  secreted  as  if  they 
had  been  buried  in  a  copper  box  in  the  corner- 
stone of  a  new  public  building  in  Boston.  He 
had  had  his  master's  certificate  for  twenty-one 
years,  and  those  people  couldn't  tell  a  marlin-spike 
from  the  starboard  side  of  the  ship. 

The  3O/th  was  landed  in  Cuba,  but  to  their 
disgust  they  found  that  about  ten  thousand 
regulars  were  ahead  of  them.  They  got  imme- 
diate orders  to  move  out  from  the  base  on  the 
road  to  Santiago.  Gates  was  interested  to  note 
that  the  only  delay  was  caused  by  the  fact  that 
many  men  of  the  other  battalions  strayed  off 
sight-seeing.  In  time  the  long  regiment  wound 
slowly  among  hills  that  shut  them  from  sight  of 
the  sea. 

For  the  men  to  admire,  there  were  palm-trees, 
little  brown  huts,  passive,  uninterested  Cuban 
soldiers  much  worn  from  carrying  American  ra- 
tions inside  and  outside.  The  weather  was  not 
oppressively  warm,  and  the  journey  was  said  to 
be  only  about  seven  miles.  There  were  no  ru* 
mours  save  that  there  had  been  one  short  fight  and 
the  army  had  advanced  to  within  sight  of  San- 


VIRTUE    IN   WAR  165 

tiago.  Having  a  peculiar  faculty  for  the  derision 
of  the  romantic,  the  3O/th  began  to  laugh.  Act- 
ually there  was  not  anything  in  the  world  which 
turned  out  to  be  as  books  descrjbe  it.  Here  they 
had  landed  from  the  transport  expecting  to  be  at 
once  flung  into  line  of  battle  and  sent  on  some 
kind  of  furious  charge,  and  now  they  were  trudg- 
ing along  a  quiet  trail  lined  with  somnolent  trees 
and  grass.  The  whole  business  so  far  struck  them 
as  being  a  highly  tedious  burlesque. 

After  a  time  they  came  to  where  the  camps  of 
regular  regiments  marked  the  sides  of  the  road — 
little  villages  of  tents  no  higher  than  a  man's 
waist.  The  colonel  found  his  brigade  commander 
and  the  3O7th  was  sent  off  into  a  field  of  long 
grass,  where  the  men  grew  suddenly  solemn  with 
the  importance  of  getting  their  supper. 

In  the  early  evening  some  regulars  told  one  of 
Gates's  companies  that  at  daybreak  this  division 
would  move  to  an  attack  upon  something. 

"How  d' you  know?"  said  the  company, 
deeply  awed. 

"  Heard  it." 

"  Well,  what  are  we  to  attack?" 

"  Dunno." 

The  3O/th  was  not  at  all  afraid,  but  each  man  be- 
gan to  imagine  the  morrow.  The  regulars  seemed 


l66  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

to  have  as  much  interest  in  the  morrow  as  they 
did  in  the  last  Christmas.  It  was  none  of  their 
affair,  apparently. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Lige  Wigram,  to  a  man  in 
the  I /th  Regular  Infantry,  "  whereabouts  are  we 
goin'  ter-morrow  an*  who  do  we  run  up  against — 
do  ye  know  ?  " 

The  1 7th  soldier  replied,  truculently:  "If  I 
ketch  th'  -  -  what  stole  my  terbaccer, 

I'll  whirl  in  an'  break  every bone  in  his 

body." 

Gates's  friends  in  the  regular  regiments  asked 
him  numerous  questions  as  to  the  reliability  of 
his  organisation.  Would  the  3O7th  stand  the 
racket  ?  They  were  certainly  not  contemptuous ; 
they  simply  did  not  seem  to  consider  it  important 
whether  the  3O7th  would  or  whether  it  would  not. 

"  Well,"  said  Gates,  "  they  won't  run  the  length 
of  a  tent-peg  if  they  can  gain  any  idea  of  what 
they're  righting ;  they  won't  bunch  if  they've 
about  six  acres  of  open  ground  to  move  in  ;  they 
won't  get  rattled  at  all  if  they  see  you  fellows 
taking  it  easy,  and  they'll  fight  like  the  devil  as 
long  as  they  thoroughly,  completely,  absolutely, 
satisfactorily,  exhaustively  understand  what  the 
business  is.  They're  lawyers.  All  excepting  my 
battalion." 


VIRTUE    IN   WAR  167 


IV 

Lige  awakened  into  a  world  obscured  by  blue 
fog.  Somebody  was  gently  shaking  him.  "  Git 
up;  we're  going  to  move."  The  regiment  was 
buckling  up  itself.  From  the  trail  came  the  loud 
creak  of  a  light  battery  moving  ahead.  The  tones 
of  all  men  were  low  ;  the  faces  of  the  officers  were 
composed,  serious.  The  regiment  found  itself 
moving  along  behind  the  battery  before  it  had 
time  to  ask  itself  more  than  a  hundred  questions. 
The  trail  wound  through  a  dense  tall  jungle,  dark, 
heavy  with  dew. 

The  battle  broke  with  a  snap — far  ahead.  Pres- 
ently Lige  heard  from  the  air  above  him  a  faint 
low  note  as  if  somebody  were  blowing  softly  in 
the  mouth  of  a  bottle.  It  was  a  stray  bullet 
which  had  wandered  a  mile  to  tell  him  that  war 
was  before  him.  He  nearly  broke  his  neck  look- 
ing upward.  "  Did  ye  hear  that  ?  "  But  the  men 
were  fretting  to  get  out  of  this  gloomy  jungle. 
They  wanted  to  see  something.  The  faint  rup- 
rup-rrrrup-rup  on  in  the  front  told  them  that  the 
fight  had  begun  ;  death  was  abroad,  and  so  the 
mystery  of  this  wilderness  excited  them.  This 
wilderness  was  portentously  still  and  dark. 


l68  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

They  passed  the  battery  aligned  on  a  hill  above 
the  trail,  and  they  had  not  gone  far  when  the 
gruff  guns  began  to  roar  and  they  could  hear  the 
rocket-like  swish  of  the  flying  shells.  Presently 
everybody  must  have  called  out  for  the  assistance 
of  the  3O/th.  Aides  and  couriers  came  flying  back 
to  them. 

"  Is  this  the  3O/th  ?  Hurry  up  your  men,  please, 
Colonel.  You're  needed  more  every  minute." 

Oh,  they  were,  were  they  ?  Then  the  regulars 
were  not  going  to  do  all  the  fighting  ?  The  old 
3O7th  was  bitterly  proud  or  proudly  bitter.  They 
left  their  blanket  rolls  under  the  guard  of  God 
and  pushed  on,  which  is  one  of  the  reasons  why 
the  Cubans  of  that  part  of  the  country  were,  later, 
so  well  equipped.  There  began  to  appear  fields, 
hot,  golden-green  in  the  sun.  On  some  palm- 
dotted  knolls  before  them  they  could  see  little 
lines  of  black  dots — the  American  advance.  A 
few  men  fell,  struck  down  by  other  men  who, 
perhaps  half  a  mile  away,  were  aiming  at  some- 
body else.  The  loss  was  wholly  in  Carmony's 
battalion,  which  immediately  bunched  and  backed 
away,  coming  with  a  shock  against  Gates's  advance 
company.  This  shock  sent  a  tremor  through  all 
of  Gates's  battalion  until  men  in  the  very  last  files 
cried  out  nervously,  "  Well,  what  in  hell  is  up 


VIRTUE   IN   WAR  169 

now  ?  "  There  came  an  order  to  deploy  and  ad. 
vance.  An  occasional  hoarse  yell  from  the  reg- 
ulars could  be  heard.  The  deploying  made  Gates's 
heart  bleed  for  the  colonel.  The  old  man  stood 
there  directing  the  movement,  straight,  fearless, 
sombrely  defiant  of — everything.  Carmony's  four 
companies  were  like  four  herds.  And  all  the  time 
the  bullets  from  no  living  man  knows  where  kept 
pecking  at  them  and  pecking  at  them.  Gates, 
the  excellent  Gates,  the  highly  educated  and 
strictly  military  Gates,  grew  rankly  insubordinate. 
He  knew  that  the  regiment  was  suffering  from 
nothing  but  the  deadly  range  and  oversweep  of 
the  modern  rifle,  of  which  many  proud  and  con- 
fident nations  know  nothing  save  that  they  have 
killed  savages  with  it,  which  is  the  least  of  all  in- 
formations. 

Gates  rushed  upon  Carmony. 

" it,  man,  if  you  can't  get  your  people 

to  deploy,  for sake  give  me  a  chance  !     I'm 

stuck  in  the  woods !  " 

Carmony  gave  nothing,  but  Gates  took  all  he 
could  get  and  his  battalion  deployed  and  advanced 
like  men.  The  old  colonel  almost  burst  into 
tears,  and  he  cast  one  quick  glance  of  gratitude  at 
Gates,  which  the  younger  officer  wore  on  his  heart 
like  a  secret  decoration. 


170  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

There  was  a  wild  scramble  up  hill,  down  dale, 
through  thorny  thickets.  Death  smote  them  with 
a  kind  of  slow  rhythm,  leisurely  taking  a  man  now 
here,  now  there,  but  the  cat-spit  sound  of  the 
bullets  was  always.  A  large  number  of  the  men 
of  Carmony's  battalion  came  on  with  Gates.  They 
were  willing  to  do  anything,  anything.  They  had 
no  real  fault,  unless  it  was  that  early  conclusion 
that  any  brave  high-minded  youth  was  necessarily 
a  good  soldier  immediately,  from  the  beginning. 
In  them  had  been  born  a  swift  feeling  that  the 
unpopular  Gates  knew  everything,  and  they  fol- 
lowed the  trained  soldier. 

If  they  followed  him,  he  certainly  took  them 
into  it.  As  they  swung  heavily  up  one  steep  hill, 
like  so  many  wind-blown  horses,  they  came  sud- 
denly out  into  the  real  advance.  Little  blue 
groups  of  men  were  making  frantic  rushes  forward 
and  then  flopping  down  on  their  bellies  to  fire 
volleys  while  other  groups  made  rushes.  Ahead 
they  could  see  a  heavy  house-like  fort  which  was 
inadequate  to  explain  from  whence  came  the 
myriad  bullets.  The  remainder  of  the  scene  was 
landscape.  Pale  men,  yellow  men,  blue  men 
came  6ut  of  this  landscape  quiet  and  sad-eyed 
with  wounds.  Often  they  were  grimly  facetious. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  American  regulars  so 


VIRTUE    IN   WAR  171 

amazing  as  his  conduct  when  he  is  wounded — his 
apologetic  limp,  his  deprecatory  arm-sling,  his  em- 
barrassed and  ashamed  shot-hole  through  the 
lungs.  The  men  of  the  3<D7th  looked  at  calm 
creatures  who  had  divers  punctures  and  they  were 
made  better.  These  men  told  them  that  it  was 
only  necessary  to  keep  a-going.  They  of  the  3<D7th 
lay  on  their  bellies,  red,  sweating  and  panting,  and 
heeded  the  voice  of  the  elder  brother. 

Gates  walked  back  of  his  line,  very  white  of 
face,  but  hard  and  stern  past  anything  his  men 
knew  of  him.  After  they  had  violently  adjured 
him  to  lie  down  and  he  had  given  weak  backs  a 
cold,  stiff  touch,  the  3O/th  charged  by  rushes.  The 
hatless  colonel  made  frenzied  speech,  but  the  man 
of  the  time  was  Gates.  The  men  seemed  to  feel 
that  this  was  his  business.  Some  of  the  regular 
officers  said  afterward  that  the  advance  of  the 
3O7th  was  very  respectable  indeed.  They  were 
rather  surprised,  they  said.  At  least  five  of  the 
crack  regiments  of  the  regular  army  were  in  this 
division,  and  the  30/th  could  win  no  more  than  a 
feeling  of  kindly  appreciation. 

Yes,  it  was  very  good,  very  good  indeed,  but 
did  you  notice  what  was  being  done  at  the  same 
moment  by  the  I2th,  the  1 7th,  the  7th,  the  8th, 
the  25th,  the 


172  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

Gates  felt  that  his  charge  was  being  a  success. 
He  was  carrying  out  a  successful  function.  Two 
captains  fell  bang  on  the  grass  and  a  lieutenant 
slumped  quietly  down  with  a  death  wound.  Many 
men  sprawled  suddenly.  Gates  was  keeping  his 
men  almost  even  with  the  regulars,  who  were 
charging  on  his  flanks.  Suddenly  he  thought 
that  he  must  have  come  close  to  the  fort  and  that 
a  Spaniard  had  tumbled  a  great  stone  block  down 
upon  his  leg.  Twelve  hands  reached  out  to  help 
him,  but  he  cried : 

"  No — d your  souls — go  on — go  on  !  " 

He  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  it  really 
was  only  for  a  moment.  When  he  opened  them 
he  found  himself  alone  with  Lige  Wigram,  who 
lay  on  the  ground  near  him. 

"  Maje,"  said  Lige,  "  yer  a  good  man.  I've 
been  a-follerin'  ye  all  day  an'  I  want  to  say  yer  a 
good  man." 

The  major  turned  a  coldly  scornful  eye  upon 
the  private. 

"  Where  are  you  wounded  ?  Can  you  walk  ? 
Well,  if  you  can,  go  to  the  rear  and  leave  me 
alone.  I'm  bleeding  to  death,  and  you  bother 
me." 

Lige,  despite  the  pain  in  his  wounded  shoulder, 
grew  indignant. 


VIRTUE    IN  WAR  173 

"  Well,"  he  mumbled,  "  you  and  me  have  been 
on  th'  outs  fer  a  long  time,  an*  I  only  wanted  to 
tell  ye  that  what  I  seen  of  ye  t'day  has  made  me 
feel  mighty  different." 

"  Go  to  the  rear — if  you  can  walk,"  said  the 
major. 

"  Now,  Maje,  look  here.  A  little  thing  like 
that " 

"  Go  to  the  rear." 

Lige  gulped  with  sobs. 

"  Maje,  I  know  I  didn't  understand  ye  at  first, 
but  ruther'n  let  a  little  thing  like  that  come  be- 
tween us,  I'd— I'd " 

"  Go  to  the  rear." 

In  this  reiteration  Lige  discovered  a  resem- 
blance to  that  first  old  offensive  phrase,  "  Come 
to  attention  and  salute."  He  pondered  over  the 
resemblance  and  he  saw  that  nothing  had  changed. 
The  man  bleeding  to  death  was  the  same  man  to 
whom  he  had  once  paid  a  friendly  visit  with  un- 
friendly results.  He  thought  now  that  he  per- 
ceived a  certain  hopeless  gulf,  a  gulf  which  is  real 
or  unreal,  according  to  circumstances.  Some- 
times all  men  are  equal ;  occasionally  they  are 
not.  If  Gates  had  ever  criticised  Lige's  manipu- 
lation of  a  hay  fork  on  the  farm  at  home,  Lige 
would  have  furiously  disdained  his  hate  or  blame. 


174  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

He  saw  now  that  he  must  not  openly  approve  the 
major's  conduct  in  war.  The  major's  pride  was 
in  his  business,  and  his,  Lige's  congratulations, 
were  beyond  all  enduring. 

The  place  where  they  were  lying  suddenly  fell 
under  a  new  heavy  rain  of  bullets.  They  sput- 
tered about  the  men,  making  the  noise  of  large 
grasshoppers. 

"  Major  !  "  cried  Lige.  "  Major  Gates  !  It 
won't  do  for  ye  to  be  left  here,  sir.  Ye'll  be 
killed." 

"  But  you  can't  help  it,  lad.  You  take  care  of 
yourself." 

"  I'm  damned  if  I  do,"  said  the  private,  vehe- 
mently. "  If  I  can't  git  you  out,  I'll  stay  and 
wait." 

The  officer  gazed  at  his  man  with  that  same  icy, 
contemptuous  gaze. 

"  I'm — I'm  a  dead  man  anyhow.  You  go  to 
the  rear,  do  you  hear?  " 

"  No." 

The  dying  major  drew  his  revolver,  cocked  it 
and  aimed  it  unsteadily  at  Lige's  head. 

"  Will  you  obey  orders  ?  " 

"  No." 

"One?" 

"No." 


VIRTUE    IN   WAR  1 75 

" Two  ? " 

"  No." 

Gates  weakly  dropped  his  revolver. 

4<  Go  to  the  devil,  then.     You're  no  soldier,  but 

"     He  tried  to  add  something,     "  But— 

He  heaved  a  long  moan.     "  But — you you — 

oh,  I'm  so-o-o  tired." 


After  the  battle,  three  correspondents  happened 
to  meet  on  the  trail.  They  were  hot,  dusty, 
weary,  hungry  and  thirsty,  and  they  repaired  to 
the  shade  of  a  mango  tree  and  sprawled  luxu- 
riously. Among  them  they  mustered  twoscore 
friends  who  on  that  day  had  gone  to  the  far  shore 
of  the  hereafter,  but  their  senses  were  no  longer 
resonant.  Shackles  was  babbling  plaintively  about 
mint-juleps,  and  the  others  were  bidding  him  to 
have  done. 

"  By-the-way,"  said  one,  at  last,  "  it's  too  bad 
about  poor  old  Gates  of  the  3O7th.  He  bled  to 
death.  His  men  were  crazy.  They  were  blub- 
bering and  cursing  around  there  like  wild  people. 
It  seems  that  when  they  got  back  there  to  look 


176  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN. 

for  him  they  found  him  just  about  gone,  and  an- 
other wounded  man  was  trying  to  stop  the  flow 
with  his  hat !  His  hat,  mind  you.  Poor  old 
Gatesie ! " 

"  Oh,  no,  Shackles  !  "  said  the  third  man  of  the 
party.  "  Oh,  no,  you're  wrong.  The  best  mint- 
juleps  in  the  world  are  made  right  in  New  York, 
Philadelphia  or  Boston.  That  Kentucky  idea  is 
only  a  tradition." 

A  wounded  man  approached  them.  He  had 
been  shot  through  the  shoulder  and  his  shirt  had 
been  diagonally  cut  away,  leaving  much  bare  skin. 
Over  the  bullet's  point  of  entry  there  was  a  kind 
of  a  white  spider,  shaped  from  pieces  of  adhesive 
plaster.  Over  the  point  of  departure  there  was  a 
bloody  bulb  of  cotton  strapped  to  the  flesh  by 
other  pieces  of  adhesive  plaster.  His  eyes  were 
dreamy,  wistful,  sad.  "  Say,  gents,  have  any  of 
ye  got  a  bottle  ?  "  he  asked. 

A  correspondent  raised  himself  suddenly  and 
looked  with  bright  eyes  at  the  soldier. 

'!  Well,  you  have  got  a  nerve,"  he  said  grin- 
ning.  "  Have  we  got  a  bottle,  eh !  Who  in 

h do  you  think  we  are  ?     If  we  had  a  bottle  of 

good  licker,  do  you  suppose  we  could  let  the 
whole  army  drink  out  of  it  ?  You  have  too  much 
faith  in  the  generosity  of  men,  my  friend  !  " 


VIRTUE   IN    WAR  177 

The  soldier  stared,  ox-like,  and  finally  said, 
"Huh?" 

"  I  say,"  continued  the  correspondent,  some- 
what more  loudly,  "  that  if  we  had  had  a  bottle 
we  would  have  probably  finished  it  ourselves  by 
this  time." 

"  But,"  said  the  other,  dazed,  "  I  meant  an 
empty  bottle.  I  didn't  mean  no  full  bottle." 

The  correspondent  was  humorously  irascible. 

u  An  empty  bottle !  You  must  be  crazy ! 
Who  ever  heard  of  a  man  looking  for  an  empty 
bottle?  It  isn't  sense  !  I've  seen  a  million  men 
looking  for  full  bottles,  but  you're  the  first  man 
I  ever  saw  who  insisted  on  the  bottle's  being 
empty.  What  in  the  world  do  you  want  it  for  ?  " 

"Well,  ye  see,  mister,"  explained  Lige,  slowly, 
"  our  major  he  was  killed  this  mornin'  an'  we're 
jes'  goin'  to  bury  him,  an'  I  thought  I'd  jest  take 
a  look  'round  an'  see  if  I  couldn't  borry  an  empty 
bottle,  an'  then  I'd  take  an'  write  his  name  an' 
reg'ment  on  a  paper  an'  put  it  in  th*  bottle  an' 
bury  it  with  him,  so's  when  they  come  fer  to  dig 
him  up  sometime  an'  take  him  home,  there  sure 
wouldn't  be  no  mistake." 

"  Oh ! " 

12 


MARINES    SIGNALLING    UNDER    FIRE 
AT   GUANTANAMO 

THEY  were  four  Guantanamo  marines,  officially 
known  for  the  time  as  signalmen,  and  it  was  their 
duty  to  lie  in  the  trenches  of  Camp  McCalla,  that 
faced  the  water,  and,  by  day,  signal  the  Marble- 
head  with  a  flag  and,  by  night,  signal  the  Marble- 
head  with  lanterns.  It  was  my  good  fortune — at 
that  time  I  considered  it  my  bad  fortune,  indeed 
— to  be  with  them  on  two  of  the  nights  when  a 
wild  storm  of  fighting  was  pealing  about  the  hill ; 
and,  of  all  the  actions  of  the  war,  none  were  so 
hard  on  the  nerves,  none  strained  courage  so  near 
the  panic  point,  as  those  swift  nights  in  Camp 
McCalla.  With  a  thousand  rifles  rattling ;  with 
the  field-guns  booming  in  your  ears ;  with  the 
diabolic  Colt  automatics  clacking ;  with  the  roar 
of  the  Marblehead  coming  from  the  bay,  and,  last, 
with  Mauser  bullets  sneering  always  in  the  air  a 
few  inches  over  one's  head,  and  with  this  endur- 
ing from  dusk  to  dawn,  it  is  extremely  doubtful 
if  any  one  who  was  there  will  be  able  to  forget  it 
easily.  The  noise ;  the  impenetrable  darkness ; 


MARINES   SIGNALLING   UNDER   FIRE       1 79 

the  knowledge  from  the  sound  of  the  bullets  that 
the  enemy  was  on  three  sides  of  the  camp  ;  the 
infrequent  bloody  stumbling  and  death  of  some 
man  with  whom,  perhaps,  one  had  messed  two 
hours  previous ;  the  weariness  of  the  body,  and 
the  more  terrible  weariness  of  the  mind,  at  the 
endlessness  of  the  thing,  made  it  wonderful  that 
at  least  some  of  the  men  did  not  come  out  of  it 
with  their  nerves  hopelessly  in  shreds. 

But,  as  this  interesting  ceremony  proceeded  in 
the  darkness,  it  was  necessary  for  the  signal  squad 
to  coolly  take  and  send  messages.  Captain  Mc- 
Calla  always  participated  in  the  defence  of  the 
camp  by  raking  the  woods  on  two  of  its  sides  with 
the  guns  of  the  Marblehead.  Moreover,  he  was 
the  senior  officer  present,  and  he  wanted  to  know 
what  was  happening.  All  night  long  the  crews 
of  the  ships  in  the  bay  would  stare  sleeplessly  into 
the  blackness  toward  the  roaring  hill. 

The  signal  squad  had  an  old  cracker-box  placed 
on  top  of  the  trench.  When  not  signalling  they 
hid  the  lanterns  in  this-  box ;  but  as  soon  as  an 
order  to  send  a  message  was  received,  it  became 
necessary  for  one  of  the  men  to  stand  up  and  ex- 
pose the  lights.  And  then — oh,  my  eye — how  the 
guerillas  hidden  in  the  gulf  of  night  would  turn 
loose  at  those  yellow  gleams  ! 


l8o  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

Signalling  in  this  way  is  done  by  letting  one 
lantern  remain  stationary — on  top  of  the  cracker- 
box,  in  this  case — and  moving  the  other  over  to 
the  left  and  right  and  so  on  in  the  regular  gestures 
of  the  wig-wagging  code.  It  is  a  very  simple 
system  of  night  communication,  but  one  can  see 
that  it  presents  rare  possibilities  when  used  in 
front  of  an  enemy  who,  a  few  hundred  yards  away, 
is  overjoyed  at  sighting  so  definite  a  mark. 

How,  in  the  name  of  wonders,  those  four  men 
at  Camp  McCalla  were  not  riddled  from  head  to 
foot  and  sent  home  more  as  repositories  of  Span- 
ish ammunition  than  as  marines  is  beyond  all  com- 
prehension. To  make  a  confession — when  one  of 
these  men  stood  up  to  wave  his  lantern,  I,  lying 
in  the  trench,  invariably  rolled  a  little  to  the  right 
or  left,  in  order  that,  when  he  was  shot,  he  would 
not  fall  on  me.  But  the  squad  came  off  scathless, 
despite  the  best  efforts  of  the  most  formidable 
corps  in  the  Spanish  army — the  Escuadra  de 
Guantanamo.  That  it  was  the  most  formidable 
corps  in  the  Spanish  army  of  occupation  has  been 
told  me  by  many  Spanish  officers  and  also  by 
General  Menocal  and  other  insurgent  officers. 
General  Menocal  was  Garcia's  chief-of-staff  when 
the  latter  was  operating  busily  in  Santiago  prov- 
ince. The  regiment  was  composed  solely  viprac- 


MARINES   SIGNALLING  UNDER  FIRE       l8l 

ticost  or  guides,  who  knew  every  shrub  and  tree 
on  the  ground  over  which  they  moved. 

Whenever  the  adjutant,  Lieutenant  Draper, 
came  plunging  along  through  the  darkness  with 
an  order — such  as :  "  Ask  the  Marblehead  to 
please  shell  the  woods  to  the  left " —  my  heart 
would  come  into  my  mouth,  for  I  knew  then 
that  one  of  my  pals  was  going  to  stand  up  be- 
hind the  lanterns  and  have  all  Spain  shoot  at 
him.  • 

The  answer  was  always  upon  the  instant : 

"Yes,  sir."  Then  the  bullets  began  to  snap, 
snap,  snap,  at  his  head  while  all  the  woods  began  to 
crackle  like  burning  straw.  I  could  lie  near  and 
watch  the  face  of  the  signalman,  illumed  as  it  was 
by  the  yellow  shine  of  lantern  light,  and  the  ab- 
sence of  excitement,  fright,  or  any  emotion  at  all 
on  his  countenance,  was  something  to  astonish  all 
theories  out  of  one's  mind.  The  face  was  in  every 
instance  merely  that  of  a  man  intent  upon  his 
business,  the  business  of  wig-wagging  into  the 
gulf  of  night  where  a  light  on  the  Marblehead 
was  seen  to  move  slowly. 

These  times  on  the  hill  resembled,  in  some 
days,  those  terrible  scenes  on  the  stage — scenes  of 
intense  gloom,  blinding  lightning,  with  a  cloaked 
devil  or  assassin  or  other  appropriate  character 


l82  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

muttering  deeply  amid  the  awful  roll  of  the  thun- 
der-drums. It  was  theatric  beyond  words  :  one 
felt  like  a  leaf  in  this  booming  chaos,  this  pro- 
longed tragedy  of  the  night.  Amid  it  all  one 
could  see  from  time  to  time  the  yellow  light  on 
the  face  of  a  preoccupied  signalman. 

Possibly  no  man  who  was  there  ever  before  un- 
derstood the  true  eloquence  of  the  breaking  of 
the  day.  We  would  lie  staring  into  the  east,  fair- 
ly ravenous  for  the  dawn.  Utterly  worn  to  rags, 
with  our  nerves  standing  on  end  like  so  many 
bristles,  we  lay  and  watched  the  east — the  un- 
speakably obdurate  and  slow  east.  It  was  a  won- 
der that  the  eyes  of  some  of  us  did  not  turn  to 
glass  balls  from  the  fixity  of  our  gaze. 

Then  there  would  come  into  the  sky  a  patch 
of*  faint  blue  light.  It  was  like  a  piece  of  moon- 
shine. Some  would  say  it  was  the  beginning  of 
daybreak ;  others  would  declare  it  was  nothing  of 
the  kind.  Men  would  get  very  disgusted  with 
each  other  in  these  low-toned  arguments  held  in 
the  trenches.  For  my  part,  this  development  in 
the  eastern  sky  destroyed  many  of  my  ideas  and 
theories  concerning  the  dawning  of  the  day ;  but 
then  I  had  never  before  had  occasion  to  give  it 
such  solemn  attention. 

This  patch  widened  and  whitened  in  about  the 


...- 


MARINES   SIGNALLING    UNDER   FIRE       183 

speed  of  a  man's  accomplishment  if  he  should  be 
in  the  way  of  painting  Madison  Square  Garden 
with  a  camel's  hair  brush.  The  guerillas  always  set 
out  to  whoop  it  up  about  this  time,  because  they 
knew  the  occasion  was  approaching  when  it  would 
be  expedient  for  them  to  elope.  I,  at  least,  al- 
ways grew  furious  with  this  wretched  sunrise.  I 
thought  I  could  have  walked  around  the  world 
in  the  time  required  for  the  old  thing  to  get  up 
above  the  horizon. 

One  midnight,  when  an  important  message  was 
to  be  sent  to  the  Marblehead,  Colonel  Hunting- 
ton  came  himself  to  the  signal  place  with  Adju- 
dant  Draper  and  Captain  McCauley,  the  quarter- 
master. When  the  man  stood  up  to  signal,  the 
colonel  stood  beside  him.  At  sight  of  the  lights, 
the  Spaniards  performed  as  usual.  They  drove 
enough  bullets  into  that  immediate  vicinity  to  kill 
all  the  marines  in  the  corps. 

Lieutenant  Draper  was  agitated  for  his  chief. 
"Colonel,  won't  you  step  down,  sir?" 

"  Why,  I  guess  not,"  said  the  grey  old  veteran 
in  his  slow,  sad,  always-gentle  way.  "  I  am  in  no 
more  danger  than  the  man." 

"  But,  sir "  began  the  adjutant. 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right,  Draper." 

So  the  colonel  and  the  private  stood  side  to  side 


184  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

and  took  the  heavy  fire  without  either  moving  a 
muscle. 

Day  was  always  obliged  to  come  at  last,  punc- 
tuated by  a  final  exchange  of  scattering  shots. 
And  the  light  shone  on  the  marines,  the  dumb 
guns,  the  flag.  Grimy  yellow  face  looked  into 
grimy  yellow  face,  and  grinned  with  weary  satis- 
faction. Coffee  ! 

Usually  it  was  impossible  for  many  of  the  men 
to  sleep  at  once.  It  always  took  me,  for  in- 
stance, some  hours  to  get  my  nerves  combed  down. 
But  then  it  was  great  joy  to  lie  in  the  trench  with 
the  four  signalmen,  and  understand  thoroughly 
that  that  night  was  fully  over  at  last,  and  that, 
although  the  future  might  have  in  store  other 
bad  nights,  that  one  could  never  escape  from  the 
prison-house  which  we  call  the  past. 

At  the  wild  little  fight  at  Cusco  there  were 
some  splendid  exhibitions  of  wig-wagging  under 
fire.  Action  began  when  an  advanced  detach- 
ment of  marines  under  Lieutenant  Lucas  with  the 
Cuban  guides  had  reached  the  summit  of  a  ridge 
overlooking  a  small  valley  where  there  was  a 
house,  a  well,  and  a  thicket  of  some  kind  of  shrub 
with  great  broad,  oily  leaves.  This  thicket, 
which  was  perhaps  an  acre  in  extent,  contained 


MARINES   SIGNALLING    UNDER   FIRE       185 

the  guerillas.  The  valley  was  open  to  the  sea 
The  distance  from  the  top  of  the  ridge  to  the 
thicket  was  barely  two  hundred  yards. 

The  Dolphin  had  sailed  up  the  coast  in  line 
with  the  marine  advance,  ready  with  her  guns  to 
assist  in  any  action.  Captain  Elliott,  who  com- 
manded the  two  hundred  marines  in  this  fight, 
suddenly  called  out  for  a  signalman.  He  wanted 
a  man  to  tell  the  Dolphin  to  open  fire  on  the 
house  and  the  thicket.  It  was  a  blazing,  bitter 
hot  day  on  top  of  the  ridge  with  its  shrivelled 
chaparral  and  its  straight,  tall  cactus  plants.  The 
sky  was  bare  and  blue,  and  hurt  like  brass.  In 
two  minutes  the  prostrate  marines  were  red  and 
sweating  like  so  many  hull-buried  stokers  in  the 
tropics. 

Captain  Elliott  called  out  : 

"  Where's  a  signalman  ?  Who's  a  signalman 
here  ?  " 

A  red-headed  "  mick  " — I  think  his  name  was 
Clancy — at  any  rate,  it  will  do  to  call  him  Clancy 
— twisted  his  head  from  where  he  lay  on  his 
stomach  pumping  his  Lee,  and,  saluting,  said  that 
he  was  a  signalman. 

There  was  no  regulation  flag  with  the  expedi- 
tion, so  Clancy  was  obliged  to  tie  his  blue  polka- 
dot  neckerchief  on  the  end  of  his  rifle.  It  did  not 


l86  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

make  a  very  good  flag.  At  first  Clancy  moved  a 
ways  down  the  safe  side  of  the  ridge  and  wig- 
wagged there  very  busily.  But  what  with  the  flag 
being  so  poor  for  the  purpose,  and  the  background 
of  ridge  being  so  dark,  those  on  the  Dolphin  did 
not  see  it.  So  Clancy  had  to  return  to  the  top  of 
the  ridge  and  outline  himself  and  his  flag  against 
the  sky. 

The  usual  thing  happened.  As  soon  as  the 
Spaniards  caught  sight  of  this  silhouette,  they  let 
go  like  mad  at  it.  To  make  things  more  comfort- 
able for  Clancy,  the  situation  demanded  that  he 
face  the  sea  and  turn  his  back  to  the  Spanish 
bullets.  This  was  a  hard  game,  mark  you — to 
stand  with  the  small  of  your  back  to  volley  firing. 
Clancy  thought  so.  Everybody  thought  so.  We 
all  cleared  out  of  his  neighbourhood.  If  he  wanted 
sole  possession  of  any  particular  spot  on  that  hill, 
he  could  have  it  for  all  we  would  interfere  with 
him. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  Clancy  was  in  a  hurry. 
I  watched  him.  He  was  so  occupied  with  the 
bullets  that  snarled  close  to  his  ears  that  he  was 
obliged  to  repeat  the  letters  of  his  message  softly 
to  himself.  It  seemed  an  intolerable  time  before 
the  Dolphin  answered  the  little  signal.  Mean- 
while, we  gazed  at  him,  marvelling  every  second 


MARINES   SIGNALLING    UNDER    FIRE       187 

that  he  had  not  yet  pitched  headlong.  He  swore 
at  times. 

Finally  the  Dolphin  replied  to  his  frantic  ges- 
ticulation, and  he  delivered  his  message.  As  his 
part  of  the  transaction  was  quite  finished — whoop  ! 
— he  dropped  like  a  brick  into  the  firing  line  and 
began  to  shoot  ;  began  to  get  "  hunky  "  with  all 
those  people  who  had  been  plugging  at  him. 
The  blue  polka-dot  neckerchief  still  fluttered  from 
the  barrel  of  his  rifle.  I  am  quite  certain  that  he 
let  it  remain  there  until  the  end  of  the  fight. 

The  shells  of  the  Dolphin  began  to  plough  up  the 
thicket,  kicking  the  bushes,  stones,  and  soil  into 
the  air  as  if  somebody  was  blasting  there. 

Meanwhile,  this  force  of  two  hundred  marines 
and  fifty  Cubans  and  the  force  of — probably — six 
companies  of  Spanish  guerillas  were  making  such 
an  awful  din  that  the  distant  Camp  McCalla  was 
all  alive  with  excitement.  Colonel  Huntington 
sent  out  strong  parties  to  critical  points  on  the 
road  to  facilitate,  if  necessary,  a  safe  retreat,  and 
also  sent  forty  men  under  Lieutenant  Magill  to 
come  up  on  the  left  flank  of  the  two  companies 
in  action  under  Captain  Elliott.  Lieutenant  Magill 
and  his  men  had  crowned  a  hill  which  covered  en- 
tirely the  flank  of  the  fighting  companies,  but 
when  the  Dolphin  opened  fire,  it  happened  that 


1 88  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

Magill  was  in  the  line  of  the  shots.  It  became 
necessary  to  stop  the  Dolphin  at  once.  Captain 
Elliott  was  not  near  Clancy  at  this  time,  and  he 
called  hurriedly  for  another  signalman. 

Sergeant  Quick  arose,  and  announced  that  he 
was  a  signalman.  He  produced  from  somewhere 
a  blue  polka-dot  neckerchief  as  large  as  a  quilt. 
He  tied  it  on  a  long,  crooked  stick.  Then  he 
went  to  the  top  of  the  ridge,  and  turning  his  back 
to  the  Spanish  fire,  began  to  signal  to  the 
Dolphin.  Again  we  gave  a  man  sole  possession 
of  a  particular  part  of  the  ridge.  We  didn't  want 
it.  He  could  have  it  arid  welcome.  If  the  young 
sergeant  had  had  the  smallpox,  the  cholera,  and 
the  yellow  fever,  we  could  not  have  slid  out  with 
more  celerity. 

As  men  have  said  often,  it  seemed  as  if  there 
was  in  this  war  a  God  of  Battles  who  held  His 
mighty  hand  before  the  Americans.  As  I  looked 
at  Sergeant  Quick  wig-wagging  there  against  the 
sky,  I  would  not  have  given  a  tin  tobacco-tag  for 
his  life.  Escape  for  him  seemed  impossible.  It 
seemed  absurd  to  hope  that  he  would  not  be  hit ; 
I  only  hoped  that  he  would  be  hit  just  a  little, 
little,  in  the  arm,  the  shoulder,  or  the  leg. 

I  watched  his  face,  and  it  was  as  grave  and 
serene  as  that  of  a  man  writing  in  his  own  library. 


MARINES   SIGNALLING    UNDER   FIRE       189 

He  was  the  very  embodiment  of  tranquillity  in 
occupation.  He  stood  there  amid  the  animal-like 
babble  of  the  Cubans,  the  crack  of  rifles,  and  the 
whistling  snarl  of  the  bullets,  and  wig-wagged 
whatever  he  had  to  wig-wag  without  heeding  any- 
thing but  his  business.  There  was  not  a  single 
trace  of  nervousness  or  haste. 

To  say  the  least,  a  fight  at  close  range  is  absorb- 
ing as  a  spectacle.  No  man  wants  to  take  his  eyes 
from  it  until  that  time  comes  when  he  makes  up 
his  mind  to  run  away.  To  deliberately  stand  up 
and  turn  your  back  to  a  battle  is  in  itself  hard 
work.  To  deliberately  stand  up  and  turn  your 
back  to  a  battle  and  hear  immediate  evidences  of 
the  boundless  enthusiasm  with  which  a  large  com- 
pany of  the  enemy  shoot  at  you  from  an  adjacent 
thicket  is,  to  my  mind  at  least,  a  very  great  feat. 
One  need  not  dwell  upon  the  detail  of  keeping  the 
mind  carefully  upon  a  slow  spelling  of  an  impor- 
tant code  message. 

•I  saw  Quick  betray  only  one  sign  of  emotion. 
As  he  swung  his  clumsy  flag  to  and  fro,  an  end 
of  it  once  caught  on  a  cactus  pillar,  and  he  looked 
sharply  over  his  shoulder  to  see  what  had  it.  He 
gave  the  flag  an  impatient  jerk.  He  looked  an- 
noyed. 


THIS  MAJESTIC  LIE 

IN  the  twilight,  a  great  crowd  was  streaming 
up  the  Prado  in  Havana.  The  people  had  been 
down  to  the  shore  to  laugh  and  twiddle  their 
fingers  at  the  American  blockading  fleet — mere 
colourless  shapes  on  the  edge  of  the  sea.  Gor- 
geous challenges  had  been  issued  to  the  far-away 
ships  by  little  children  and  women  while  the  men 
laughed.  Havana  was  happy,  for  it  was  known 
that  the  illustrious  sailor  Don  Patricio  de  Montojo 
had  with  his  fleet  met  the  decaying  ships  of  one 
Dewey  and  smitten  them  into  stuffing  for  a  baby's 
pillow.  Of  course  the  American  sailors  were 
drunk  at  the  time,  but  the  American  sailors  were 
always  drunk.  Newsboys  galloped  among  the 
crowd  crying  La  Lucha  and  La  Marina.  The 
papers  said  :  "  This  is  as  we  foretold.  How  could 
it  be  otherwise  when  the  cowardly  Yankees  met 
our  brave  sailors?  "  But  the  tongues  of  the  exu- 
berant people  ran  more  at  large.  One  man  said  in 
aloud  voice  :  "  How  unfortunate  it  is  that  we  still 
have  to  buy  meat  in  Havana  when  so  much  pork 

is  floating  in  Manila   Bay ! "     Amid  the  conse- 
190 


THIS   MAJESTIC   LIE  IQI 

quent  laughter,  another  man  retorted :  "  Oh, 
never  mind  !  That  pork  in  Manila  is  rotten.  It 
always  was  rotten."  Still  another  man  said : 
"  But,  little  friend,  it  would  make  good  manure 
for  our  fields  if  only  we  had  it."  And  still  an- 
other man  said  :  "  Ah,  wait  until  our  soldiers  get 
with  the  wives  of  the  Americans  and  there  will  be 
many  little  Yankees  to  serve  hot  on  our  tables. 
The  men  of  the  Maine  simply  made  our  appetites 
good.  Never  mind  the  pork  in  Manila.  There 
will  be  plenty."  Women  laughed  ;  children 
laughed  because  their  mothers  laughed  ;  every- 
body laughed.  And — a  word  with  you — these 
people  were  cackling  and  chuckling  and  insulting 
their  own  dead,  their  own  dead  men  of  Spain,  for 
if  the  poor  green  corpses  floated  then  in  Manila 
Bay  they  were  not  American  corpses. 

The  newsboys  came  charging  with  an  extra. 
The  inhabitants  of  Philadelphia  had  fled  to  the 
forests  because  of  a  Spanish  bombardment  and 
also  Boston  was  besieged  by  the  Apaches  who 
had  totally  invested  the  town.  The  Apache 
artillery  had  proven  singularly  effective  and  an 
American  garrison  had  been  unable  to  face  it.  In 
Chicago  millionaires  were  giving  away  their 
palaces  for  two  or  three  loaves  of  bread.  These 
despatches  were  from  Madrid  and  every  word  was 


IQ2  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

truth,  but  they  added  little  to  the  enthusiasm  be- 
cause the  crowd — God  help  mankind — was  greatly 
occupied  with  visions  of  Yankee  pork  floating  in 
Manila  Bay.  This  will  be  thought  to  be  embit- 
tered writing.  Very  well ;  the  writer  admits  its 
untruthfulness  in  one  particular.  It  is  untruthful 
in  that  it  fails  to  reproduce  one-hundredth  part 
of  the  grossness  and  indecency  of  popular  expres- 
sion in  Havana  up  to  the  time  when  the  people 
knew  they  were  beaten. 

There  were  no  lights  on  the  Prado  or  in  other 
streets  because  of  a  military  order.  In  the  slow- 
moving  crowd,  there  was  a  young  man  and  an  old 
woman.  Suddenly  the  young  man  laughed  a 
strange  metallic  laugh  and  spoke  in  English,  not 
cautiously.  "  That's  damned  hard  to  listen  to." 

The  woman  spoke  quickly.  "  Hush,  you  little 
idiot.  Do  you  want  to  be  walkin'  across  that 
grass-plot  in  Cabanas  with  your  arms  tied  behind 
you?"  Then  she  murmured  sadly:  "Johnnie,  I 
wonder  if  that's  true — what  they  say  about 
Manila?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Johnnie,  "  but  I  think 
they're  lying." 

As  they  crossed  the  Plaza,  they  could  see  that 
the  Caf<§  Tacon  was  crowded  with  Spanish  officers 
in  blue  and  white  pajama  uniforms.  Wine  and 


THIS   MAJESTIC   LIE  193 

brandy  was  being  wildly  consumed  in  honour  of 
the  victory  at  Manila.  "  Let's  hear  what  they 
say,"  said  Johnnie  to  his  companion,  and  they 
moved  across  the  street  and  in  under  the por tales. 
The  owner  of  the  Cafe  Tacon  was  standing  on  a 
table  making  a  speech  amid  cheers.  He  was  ad- 
vocating the  crucifixion  of  such  Americans  as  fell 
into  Spanish  hands  and — it  was  all  very  sweet  and 
white  and  tender,  but  above  all,  it  was  chivalrous, 
because  it  is  well  known  that  the  Spaniards  are  a 
chivalrous  people.  It  has  been  remarked  both  by 
the  English  newspapers  and  by  the  bulls  that  are 
bred  for  the  red  death.  And  secretly  the  corpses 
in  Manila  Bay  mocked  this  jubilee  ;  the  mocking, 
mocking  corpses  in  Manila  Bay. 

To  be  blunt,  Johnnie  was  an  American  spy. 
Once  he  had  been  the  manager  of  a  sugar  planta- 
tion in  Pinar  del  Rio,  and  during  the  insurrection 
it  had  been  his  distinguished  function  to  pay  trib- 
ute of  money,  food  and  forage  alike  to  Spanish 
columns  and  insurgent  bands.  He  was  performing 
this  straddle  with  benefit  to  his  crops  and  with 
mildew  to  his  conscience  when  Spain  and  the 
United  States  agreed  to  skirmish,  both  in  the 
name  of  honour.  It  then  became  a  military 
necessity  that  he  should  change  his  base.  What- 
ever of  the  province  that  was  still  alive  was  sorry 
'3 


IQ4  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

to  see  him  go  for  he  had  been  a  very  dexterous 
man  and  food  and  wine  had  been  in  his  house  even 
when  a  man  with  a  mango  could  gain  the  envy  of 
an  entire  Spanish  battalion.  Without  doubt  he 
had  been  a  mere  trimmer,  but  it  was  because  of 
his  crop  and  he  always  wrote  the  word  thus : 
CROP.  In  those  days  a  man  of  peace  and  com- 
merce was  in  a  position  parallel  to  the  watch- 
maker who  essayed  a  task  in  the  midst  of  a  drunken 
brawl  with  oaths,  bottles  and  bullets  flying  about 
his  intent  bowed  head.  So  many  of  them — or  all 
of  them — were  trimmers,  and  to  any  armed  force 
they  fervently  said  :  "  God  assist  you."  And  be- 
hold, the  trimmers  dwelt  safely  in  a  tumultuous 
land  and  without  effort  save  that  their  little 
machines  for  trimming  ran  night  and  day.  So 
many  a  plantation  became  covered  with  a  maze  of 
lies  as  if  thick-webbing  spiders  had  run  from  stalk 
to  stalk  in  the  cane.  So  sometimes  a  planter  in- 
curred an  equal  hatred  from  both  sides  and  when 
in  trouble  there  was  no  camp  to  which  he  could 
flee  save,  straight  in  air,  the  camp  of  the  heavenly 
host. 

If  Johnnie  had  not  had  a  crop,  he  would  have 
been  plainly  on  the  side  of  the  insurgents,  but  his 
crop  staked  him  down  to  the  soil  at  a  point  where 
the  Spaniards  could  always  be  sure  of  finding  him 


THIS    MAJESTIC    LIE  195 

— him  or  his  crop — it  is  the  same  thing.  But 
when  war  came  between  Spain  and  the  United 
States  he  could  no  longer  be  the  cleverest  trimmer 
in  Pinar  del  Rio.  And  he  retreated  upon  Key 
West  losing  much  of  his  baggage  train,  not  be- 
cause of  panic  but  because  of  wisdom.  In  Key 
West,  he  was  no  longer  the  manager  of  a  big 
Cuban  plantation  ;  he  was  a  little  tan-faced  refugee 
without  much  money.  Mainly  he  listened  ;  there 
was  nought  else  to  do.  In  the  first  place  he  was 
a  young  man  of  extremely  slow  speech  and  in  the 
Key  West  Hotel  tongues  ran  like  pin-wheels.  If 
he  had  projected  his  methodic  way  of  thought 
and  speech  upon  this  hurricane,  he  would  have 
been  as  effective  as  the  man  who  tries  to  smoke 
against  the  gale.  This  truth  did  not  impress  him. 
Really,  he  was  impressed  with  the  fact  that  al- 
though he  knew  much  of  Cuba,  he  could  not  talk 
so  rapidly  and  wisely  of  it  as  many  war-correspond- 
ents who  had  not  yet  seen  the  island.  Usually 
he  brooded  in  silence  over  a  bottle  of  beer  and  the 
loss  of  his  crop.  He  received  no  sympathy,  al- 
though there  was  a  plentitude  of  tender  souls. 
War's  first  step  is  to  make  expectation  so  high 
that  all  present  things  are  fogged  and  darkened 
in  a  tense  wonder  of  the  future.  None  cared 
about  the  collapse  of  Johnnie's  plantation  when 


196  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

all  were  thinking  of  the  probable  collapse  of  cities 
and  fleets. 

In  the  meantime,  battle-ships,  monitors,  cruisers, 
gunboats  and  torpedo  craft  arrived,  departed, 
arrived,  departed.  Rumours  sang  about  the  ears 
of  warships  hurriedly  coaling.  Rumours  sang 
about  the  ears  of  warships  leisurely  coming  to 
anchor.  This  happened  and  that  happened  and 
if  the  news  arrived  at  Key  West  as  a  mouse,  it 
was  often  enough  cabled  north  as  an  elephant. 
The  correspondents  at  Key  West  were  perfectly 
capable  of  adjusting  their  perspective,  but  many 
of  the  editors  in  the  United  States  were  like  deaf 
men  at  whom  one  has  to  roar.  A  few  quiet  words 
of  information  was  not  enough  for  them ;  one  had 
to  bawl  into  their  ears  a  whirlwind  tale  of  heroism, 
blood,  death,  victory — or  defeat — at  any  rate,  a 
tragedy.  The  papers  should  have  sent  play- 
wrights to  the  first  part  of  the  war.  Play-wrights 
are  allowed  to  lower  the  curtain  from  time  to  time 
and  say  to  the  crowd  :  "  Mark,  ye,  now  !  Three 
or  four  months  are  supposed  to  elapse.  But  the 
poor  devils  at  Key  West  were  obliged  to  keep  the 
curtain  up  all  the  time.  "  This  isn't  a  continuous 
performance."  "  Yes,  it  is ;  k's  got  to  be  a  con- 
tinuous performance.  The  welfare  of  the  paper 
demands  it.  The  people  want  news."  Very  well : 


THIS    MAJESTIC    LIE  197 

continuous  performance.  It  is  strange  how  men 
of  sense  can  go  aslant  at  the  bidding  of  other  men 
of  sense  and  combine  to  contribute  to  a  general 
mess  of  exaggeration  and  bombast.  But  we  did ; 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  furor  I  remember  the  still 
figure  of  Johnnie,  the  planter,  the  ex-trimmer. 
He  looked  dazed. 

This  was  in  May. 

We  all  liked  him.  From  time  to  time  some  of 
us  heard  in  his  words  the  vibrant  of  a  thoughtful 
experience.  But  it  could  not  be  well  heard ;  it 
was  only  like  the  sound  of  a  bell  from  under  the 
floor.  We  were  too  busy  with  our  own  clatter. 
He  was  taciturn  and  competent  while  we  solved 
the  war  in  a  babble  of  tongues.  Soon  we  went 
about  our  peaceful  paths  saying  ironically  one  to 
another :  "  War  is  hell."  Meanwhile,  managing 
editors  fought  us  tooth  and  nail  and  we  all  were 
sent  boxes  of  medals  inscribed  :  "  Incompetency." 
We  became  furious  with  ourselves.  Why  couldn't 
we  send  hair-raising  despatches  ?  Why  couldn't 
we  inflame  the  wires?  All  this  we  did.  If  a 
first-class  armoured  cruiser  which  had  once  been 
a  tow-boat  fired  a  six-pounder  shot  from  her  for- 
ward thirteen-inch  gun  turret,  the  world  heard  of 
it,  you  bet.  We  were  not  idle  men.  We  had 
come  to  report  the  war  and  we  did  it.  Our  good 


198  WOUNDS   IN    THE    RAIN 

names  and  our  salaries  depended  upon  it  and  we 
were  urged  by  our  managing-editors  to  remember 
that  the  American  people  were  a  collection  of 
super-nervous  idiots  who  would  immediately  have 
convulsions  if  we  did  not  throw  them  some  news 
— any  news.  It  was  not  true,  at  all.  The  Ameri- 
can people  were  anxious  for  things  decisive  to 
happen ;  they  were  not  anxious  to  be  lulled  to 
satisfaction  with  a  drug.  But  we  lulled  them. 
We  told  them  this  and  we  told  them  that,  and  I 
warrant  you  our  screaming  sounded  like  the  noise 
of  a  lot  of  sea-birds  settling  for  the  night  among 
the  black  crags. 

In  the  meantime,  Johnnie  stared  and  meditated. 
In  his  unhurried,  unstartled  manner  he  was  sin- 
gularly like  another  man  who  was  flying  the 
pennant  as  commander-in-chief  of  the  North 
Atlantic  Squadron.  Johnnie  was  a  refugee  ;  the 
admiral  was  an  admiral.  And  yet  they  were  much 
akin,  these  two.  Their  brother  was  the  Strategy 
Board — the  only  capable  political  institution  of 
the  war.  At  Key  West  the  naval  officers  spoke 
of  their  business  and  were  devoted  to  it  and  were 
bound  to  succeed  in  it,  but  when  the  flag-ship  was 
in  port  the  only  two  people  who  were  independent 
and  sane  were  the  admiral  and  Johnnie.  The  rest 
of  us  were  lulling  the  public  with  drugs. 


THIS   MAJESTIC   LIE  199 

There  was  much  discussion  of  the  new  batteries 
at  Havana.  Johnnie  was  a  typical  American.  In 
Europe  a  typical  American  is  a  man  with  a  hard 
eye,  chin-whiskers  and  a  habit  of  speaking  through 
his  nose.  Johnnie  was  a  young  man  of  great 
energy,  ready  to  accomplish  a  colossal  thing  for 
the  basic  reason  that  he  was  ignorant  of  its  mag- 
nitude. In  fact  he  attacked  all  obstacles  in  life  in 
a  spirit  of  contempt,  seeing  them  smaller  than 
they  were  until  he  had  actually  surmounted  them 
— when  he  was  likely  to  be  immensely  pleased 
with  himself.  Somewhere  in  him  there  was  a 
sentimental  tenderness,  but  it  was  like  a  light  seen 
afar  at  night ;  it  came,  went,  appeared  again  in  a 
new  place,  flickered,  flared,  went  out,  left  you  in 
a  void  and  angry.  And  if  his  sentimental  tender- 
ness was  a  light,  the  darkness  in  which  it  puzzled 
you  was  his  irony  of  soul.  This  irony  was  di- 
rected first  at  himself ;  then  at  you  ;  then  at  the 
nation  and  the  flag ;  then  at  God.  It  was  a  mid- 
night in  which  you  searched  for  the  little  elusive, 
ashamed  spark  of  tender  sentiment.  Sometimes, 
you  thought  this  was  all  pretext,  the  manner  and 
the  way  of  fear  of  the  wit  of  others;  sometimes 
you  thought  he  was  a  hardened  savage  ;  usually 
you  did  not  think  but  waited  in  the  cheerful  cer- 
tainty that  in  time  the  little  flare  of  light  would 
appear  in  the  gloom. 


200  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

Johnnie  decided  that  he  would  go  and  spy  upon 
the  fortifications  of  Havana.  If  any  one  wished 
to  know  of  those  batteries  it  was  the  admiral  of 
the  squadron,  but  the  admiral  of  the  squadron 
knew  much.  I  feel  sure  that  he  knew  the  size 
and  position  of  every  gun.  To  be  sure,  new  guns 
might  be  mounted  at  any  time,  but  they  would 
not  be  big  guns,  and  doubtless  he  lacked  in  his 
cabin  less  information  than  would  be  worth  a 
man's  life.  Still,  Johnnie  decided  to  be  a  spy. 
He  would  go  and  look.  We  of  the  newspapers 
pinned  him  fast  to  the  tail  of  our  kite  and  he  was 
taken  to  see  the  admiral.  I  judge  that  the  admiral 
did  not  display  much  interest  in  the  plan.  But  at 
any  rate  it  seems  that  he  touched  Johnnie  smartly 
enough  with  a  brush  to  make  him,  officially,  a 
spy.  Then  Johnnie  bowed  and  left  the  cabin. 
There  was  no  other  machinery.  If  Johnnie  was 
to  end  his  life  and  leave  a  little  book  about  it,  no 
one  cared — least  of  all,  Johnnie  and  the  admiral. 
When  he  came  aboard  the  tug,  he  displayed  his 
usual  stalwart  and  rather  selfish  zest  for  fried  eggs. 
It  was  all  some  kind  of  an  ordinary  matter.  It 
was  done  every  day.  It  was  the  business  of  pack- 
ing pork,  sewing  shoes,  binding  hay.  It  was  com- 
monplace. No  one  could  adjust  it,  get  it  in  pro, 
portion,  until — afterwards.  On  a  dark  night,  they 


THIS   MAJESTIC    LIE  2OI 

heaved  him  into  a  small  boat  and  rowed  him  to 
the  beach. 

And  one  day  he  appeared  at  the  door  of  a  little 
lodging-house  in  Havana  kept  by  Martha  Clancy, 
born  in  Ireland,  bred  in  New  York,  fifteen  years 
married  to  a  Spanish  captain,  and  now  a  widow, 
keeping  Cuban  lodgers  who  had  no  money  with 
which  to  pay  her.  She  opened  the  door  only  a  little 
way  and  looked  down  over  her  spectacles  at  him. 

"Good-mornin',  Martha,"  he  said. 

She  looked  a  moment  in  silence.  Then  she 
made  an  indescribable  gesture  of  weariness. 
"  Come  in,"  she  said.  He  stepped  inside.  "  And 
in  God's  name  couldn't  you  keep  your  necjc  out  of 
this  rope  ?  And  so  you  had  to  come  here,  did 
you — to  Havana?  Upon  my  soul,  Johnnie,  my 
son,  you  are  the  biggest  fool  on  two  legs." 

He  moved  past  her  into  the  court-yard  and  took 
his  old  chair  at  the  table — between  the  winding 
stairway  and  the  door — near  the  orange  tree. 
"  Why  am  I  ?  "  he  demanded  stoutly.  She  made 
no  reply  until  she  had  taken  seat  in  her  rocking- 
chair  and  puffed  several  times  upon  a  cigarette. 
Then  through  the  smoke  she  said  meditatively : 
"  Everybody  knows  ye  are  a  damned  little 
mambi."  Sometimes  she  spoke  with  an  Irish 
accent. 


202  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

He  laughed.  I'm  no  more  of  a  mambi  than  you 
are,  anyhow." 

"  I'm  no  mambi.  But  your  name  is  poison  to 
half  the  Spaniards  in  Havana.  That  you  know. 
And  if  you  were  once  safe  in  Cayo  Hueso,  'tis 
nobody  but  a  born  fool  who  would  come  blun- 
derin'  into  Havana  again.  Have  ye  had  your 
dinner?" 

"  What  have  you  got  ?  "  he  asked  before  com- 
mitting himself. 

She  arose  and  spoke  without  confidence  as  she 
moved  toward  the  cupboard.  "  There's  some  cod- 
fish salad." 

"  What  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Codfish  salad." 

"  Codfish  what?" 

"  Codfish  salad.  Ain't  it  good  enough  for  ye  ? 
Maybe  this  is  Delmonico's — no?  Maybe  ye  never 
heard  that  the  Yankees  have  us  blockaded,  hey  ? 
Maybe  ye  think  food  can  be  picked  in  the 
streets  here  now,  hey  ?  I'll  tell  ye  one  thing,  my 
son,  if  you  stay  here  long  you'll  see  the  want  of 
it  and  so  you  had  best  not  throw  it  over  your 
shoulder." 

The  spy  settled  determinedly  in  his  chair  and 
delivered  himself  his  final  decision.  "  That  may 
all  be  true,  but  I'm  damned  if  I  eat  codfish  salad." 


THIS   MAJESTIC    LIE  203 

Old  Martha  was  a  picture  of  quaint  despair. 
"You'll  not?" 

-No!" 

"  Then,"  she  sighed  piously,  "  may  the  Lord 
have  mercy  on  ye,  Johnnie,  for  you'll  never  do 
here.  'Tis  not  the  time  for  you.  You're  due 
after  the  blockade.  Will  you  do  me  the  favour  of 
translating  why  you  won't  eat  codfish  salad,  you 
skinny  little  insurrecto  ?  " 

"  Cod-fish  salad !  "  he  said  with  a  deep  sneer. 
"  Who  ever  heard  of  it !  " 

Outside,  on  the  jumbled  pavement  of  the  street, 
an  occasional  two-wheel  cart  passed  with  deafen- 
ing thunder,  making  one  think  of  the  overturning 
of  houses.  Down  from  the  pale  sky  over  the 
patio  came  a  heavy  odour  of  Havana  itself,  a 
smell  of  old  straw.  The  wild  cries  of  vendors 
could  be  heard  at  intervals. 

"You'll  not?" 

"No." 

"  And  why  not  ?  " 

"  Cod-fish  salad  ?     Not  by  a  blame  sight !  " 

"  Well — all  right  then.  You  are  more  of  a  pig- 
headed young  imbecile  than  even  I  thought  from 
seeing  you  come  into  Havana  here  where  half  the 
town  knows  you  and  the  poorest  Spaniard  would 
give  a  gold  piece  to  see  you  go  into  Cabanas  and 


2O4  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

forget  to  come  out.  Did  I  tell  you,  my  son  Al- 
fred is  sick  ?  Yes,  poor  little  fellow,  he  lies  up  in 
the  room  you  used  to  have.  The  fever.  And 
did  you  see  Woodham  in  Key  West  ?  Heaven 
save  us,  what  quick  time  he  made  in  getting  out. 
I  hear  Figtree  and  Button  are  working  in  the 
cable  office  over  there — no?  And  when  is  the 
war  going  to  end  ?  Are  the  Yankees  going  to  try 
to  take  Havana  ?  It  will  be  a  hard  job,  Johnnie  ? 
The  Spaniards  say  it  is  impossible.  Everybody 
is  laughing  at  the  Yankees.  I  hate  to  go  into 
the  street  and  hear  them.  Is  General  Lee  going 
to  lead  the  army  ?  What's  become  of  Springer  ? 
I  see  you've  got  a  new  pair  of  shoes." 

In  the  evening  there  was  a  sudden  loud  knock 
at  the  outer  door.  Martha  looked  at  Johnnie  and 
Johnnie  looked  at  Martha.  He  was  still  sitting  in 
the  patio,  smoking.  She  took  the  lamp  and  set 
it  on  a  table  in  the  little  parlour.  This  parlour 
connected  the  street-door  with  the  patio,  and  so 
Johnnie  would  be  protected  from  the  sight  of  the 
people  who  knocked  by  the  broad  illuminated 
tract.  Martha  moved  in  pensive  fashion  upon  the 
latch.  "  Who's  there  ?  "  she  asked  casually. 

"  The  police."  There  it  was,  an  old  melodra- 
matic incident  from  the  stage,  from  the  romances. 
One  could  scarce  believe  it.  It  had  all  the  dig- 


THIS   MAJESTIC    LIE  20$ 

nity  of  a  classic  resurrection.  "The  police!" 
One  sneers  at  its  probability ;  it  is  too  venerable. 
But  so  it  happened. 

"  Who  ?  "  said  Martha. 

"  The  police  !  " 

"  What  do  you  want  here  ?  " 

"  Open  the  door  and  we'll  tell  you." 

Martha  drew  back  the  ordinary  huge  bolts  of  a 
Havana  house  and  opened  the  door  a  trifle.  "  Tell 
me  what  you  want  and  begone  quickly,"  she  said, 
"  for  my  little  boy  is  ill  of  the  fever " 

She  could  see  four  or  five  dim  figures,  and  now 
one  of  these  suddenly  placed  a  foot  well  within 
the  door  so  that  she  might  not  close  it.  "  We 
have  come  for  Johnnie.  We  must  search  your 
house." 

"Johnnie?  Johnnie?  Who  is  Johnnie  ?"  said 
Martha  in  her  best  manner. 

The  police  inspector  grinned  with  the  light  upon 
his  face.  "  Don't  you  know  Sefior  Johnnie  from 
Pinar  del  Rio  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Before  the  war — yes.  But  now — where  is  he 
— he  must  be  in  Key  West  ?  " 

"  He  is  in  your  house." 

"  He?  In  my  house?  Do  me  the  favour  to 
think  that  I  have  some  intelligence.  Would  I  be 
likely  to  be  harbouring  a  Yankee  in  these  times  ? 


206  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

You  must  think  I  have  no  more  head  than  an 
Orden  Publico.  And  I'll  not  have  you  search  my 
house,  for  there  is  no  one  here  save  my  son — who 
is  maybe  dying  of  the  fever — and  the  doctor.  The 
doctor  is  with  him  because  now  is  the  crisis,  and 
any  one  little  thing  may  kill  or  cure  my  boy,  and 
you  will  do  me  the  favour  to  consider  what  may 
happen  if  I  allow  five  or  six  heavy-footed  police- 
men to  go  tramping  all  over  my  house.  You  may 
think " 

"  Stop  it,"  said  the  chief  police  officer  at  last. 
He  was  laughing  and  weary  and  angry. 

Martha  checked  her  flow  of  Spanish.  "  There !  " 
she  thought,  "  I've  done  my  best.  He  ought  to 
fall  in  with  it."  But  as  the  police  entered  she 
began  on  them  again.  "  You  will  search  the  house 
whether  I  like  it  or  no.  Very  well ;  but  if  any- 
thing happens  to  my  boy  ?  It  is  a  nice  way  of 
conduct,  anyhow — coming  into  the  house  of  a 
widow  at  night  and  talking  much  about  this  Yankee 
and " 

"  For  God's  sake,  seftora,  hold  your  tongue. 
We " 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  sefiora  can  for  God's  sake  very 
well  hold  her  tongue,  but  that  wouldn't  assist  you 
men  into  the  street  where  you  belong.  Take 
care  :  if  my  sick  boy  suffers  from  this  prowling  ! 


THIS   MAJESTIC  LIE  2O7 

No,  you'll  find  nothing  in  that  wardrobe.  And 
do  you  think  he  would  be  under  the  table  ?  Don't 
overturn  all  that  linen.  Look  you,  when  you  go 
upstairs,  tread  lightly." 

Leaving  a  man  on  guard  at  the  street  door  and 
another  in  the  patio,  the  chief  policeman  and  the 
remainder  of  his  men  ascended  to  the  gallery  from 
which  opened  three  sleeping-rooms.  They  were 
followed  by  Martha  abjuring  them  to  make  no 
noise.  The  first  room  was  empty ;  the  second 
room  was  empty  ;  as  they  approached  the  door  of 
the  third  room,  Martha  whispered  supplications. 
"Now,  in  the  name  of  God,  don't  disturb  my 
boy."  The  inspector  motioned  his  men  to  pause 
and  then  he  pushed  open  the  door.  Only  one 
weak  candle  was  burning  in  the  room  and  its 
yellow  light  fell  upon  the  bed  whereon  was 
stretched  the  figure  of  a  little  curly-headed  boy  in 
a  white  nightey.  He  was  asleep,  but  his  face  was 
pink  with  fever  and  his  lips  were  murmuring  some 
half-coherent  childish  nonsense.  At  the  head  of 
the  bed  stood  the  motionless  figure  of  a  man. 
His  back  was  to  the  door,  but  upon  hearing  a 
noise  he  held  a  solemn  hand.  There  was  an  odour 
of  medicine.  Out  on  the  balcony,  Martha  appar- 
ently was  weeping. 

The  inspector  hesitated  for  a  moment ;  then  he 


208  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

noiselessly  entered  the  room  and  with  his  yellow 
cane  prodded  under  the  bed,  in  the  cupboard  and 
behind  the  window-curtains.  Nothing  came  of  it. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  out  to  the 
balcony.  He  was  smiling  sheepishly.  Evidently 
he  knew  that  he  had  been  beaten.  "  Very  good, 
Seftora,"  he  said.  "  You  are  clever  ;  some  day  I 
shall  be  clever,  too.  He  shook  his  ringer  at  her. 
He  was  threatening  her  but  he  affected  to  be 
playful.  "  Then — beware  !  Beware  !  " 

Martha  replied  blandly,  "  My  late  husband,  El 
Capitan  Seftor  Don  Patricio  de  Castellon  y  Valla- 
dolid  was  a  cavalier  of  Spain  and  if  he  was  alive 
to-night  he  would  now  be  cutting  the  ears  from 
the  heads  of  you  and  your  miserable  men  who 
smell  frightfully  of  cognac." 

"  For  Dios  !  "  muttered  the  inspector  as  followed 
by  his  band  he  made  his  way  down  the  spiral 
staircase.  "  It  is  a  tongue  !  One  vast  tongue  !  " 
At  the  street-door  they  made  ironical  bows ;  they 
departed  ;  they  were  angry  men. 

Johnnie  came  down  when  he  heard  Martha 
bolting  the  door  behind  the  police.  She  brought 
back  the  lamp  to  the  table  in  the  patio  and  stood 
beside  it,  thinking.  Johnnie  dropped  into  his  old 
chair.  The  expression  on  the  spy's  face  was  curi- 
ous ;  it  pictured  glee,  anxiety,  self-complacency ; 


THIS    MAJESTIC    LIE 

above  all  it  pictured  self-complacency.  Martha 
said  nothing ;  she  was  still  by  the  lamp,  musing. 

The  long  silence  was  suddenly  broken  by  a 
tremendous  guffaw  from  Johnnie.  "  Did  you  ever 
see  sich  a  lot  of  fools !  "  He  leaned  his  head  far 
back  and  roared  victorious  merriment. 

Martha  was  almost  dancing  in  her  apprehension. 
"  Hush  !  Be  quiet,  you  little  demon  !  Hush  ! 
Do  me  the  favour  to  allow  them  to  get  to  the  corner 
before  you  bellow  like  a  walrus.  Be  quiet." 

The  spy  ceased  his  laughter  and  spoke  in 
indignation.  "  Why  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  Ain't  I 
got  a  right  to  laugh  ?  " 

"  Not  with  a  noise  like  a  cow  fallin'  into  a  cu- 
cumber-frame," she  answered  sharply.  "  Do  me 

the  favour "  Then  she  seemed  overwhelmed 

with  a  sense  of  the  general  hopelessness  of  John- 
nie's character.  She  began  to  wag  her  head. 
"  Oh,  but  you  are  the  boy  for  gettin*  yourself  into 
the  tiger's  cage  without  even  so  much  as  the 
thought  of  a  pocket-knife  in  your  thick  head. 
You  would  be  a  genius  of  the  first  water  if  you 
only  had  a  little  sense.  And  now  you're  here, 
what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

He  grinned  at  her.  "  I'm  goin*  to  hold  an  in- 
spection of  the  land  and  sea  defences  of  the  city 
of  Havana." 


210  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

Martha's  spectacles  dropped  low  on  her  nose 
and,  looking  over  the  rims  of  them  in  grave  med- 
itation, she  said  :  "  If  you  can't  put  up  with  cod- 
fish salad  you  had  better  make  short  work  of  your 
inspection  of  the  land  and  sea  defences  of  the 
city  of  Havana.  You  are  likely  to  starve  in  the 
meantime.  A  man  who  is  particular  about  his 
food  has  come  to  the  wrong  town  if  he  is  in  Ha- 
vana now." 

"  No,  but "  asked  Johnnie  seriously.  "  Have- 
n't you  any  bread  ?  " 

"Bread!" 

"  Well,  coffee  then  ?     Coffee  alone  will  do." 

"Coffee!" 

Johnnie  arose  deliberately  and  took  his  hat. 
Martha  eyed  him.  "And  where  do  you  think 
you  are  goin'  ?  "  she  asked  cuttingly. 

Still  deliberate,  Johnnie  moved  in  the  direction 
of  the  street-door.  "  I'm  goin'  where  I  can  get 
something  to  eat." 

Martha  sank  into  a  chair  with  a  moan  which 
was  a  finished  opinion — almost  a  definition — of 
Johnnie's  behaviour  in  life.  "  And  where  will 
you  go  ?  "  she  asked  faintly. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  rejoined.  "  Some  cafe*. 
Guess  I'll  go  to  the  Cafe"  Aguacate.  They  feed 
you  well  there.  I  remember " 


THIS  MAJESTIC    LIE  211 

"  You  remember  ?  They  remember  !  They 
know  you  as  well  as  if  you  were  the  sign  over  the 
door." 

"  Oh,  they  won't  give  me  away,"  said  Johnnie 
with  stalwart  confidence. 

"  Gi-give  you  away?  Give  you  a-way?" 
stammered  Martha. 

The  spy  made  no  answer  but  went  to  the  door, 
unbarred  it  and  passed  into  the  street.  Martha 
caught  her  breath  and  ran  after  him  and  came 
face  to  face  with  him  as  he  turned  to  shut  the 
door.  "  Johnnie,  if  ye  come  back,  bring  a  loaf 
of  bread.  I'm  dyin*  for  one  good  honest  bite  in 
a  slice  of  bread." 

She  heard  his  peculiar  derisive  laugh  as  she 
bolted  the  door.  She  returned  to  her  chair  in  the 
patio.  "  Well,  there,"  she  said  with  affection,  ad- 
miration and  contempt.  "  There  he  goes  !  The 
most  hard-headed  little  ignoramus  in  twenty  na- 
tions !  What  does  he  care  ?  Nothin' !  And  why 
is  it?  Pure  bred-in-the-bone  ignorance.  Just  be- 
cause he  can't  stand  codfish  salad  he  goes  out  to  a 
cafe  !  A  cafe  where  they  know  him  as  if  they  had 
made  him !  .  .  .  Well  ....  I  won't  see  him 
again,  probably.  .  .  .  But  if  he  comes  back,  I 
hope  he  brings  some  bread.  I'm  near  dead  for 


212  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 


II 


Johnnie  strolled  carelessly  through  dark  nar- 
row streets.  Near  every  corner  were  two  Orden 
Publicos — a  kind  of  soldier-police — quiet  in  the 
shadow  of  some  doorway,  their  Remingtons 
ready,  their  eyes  shining.  Johnnie  walked  past 
as  if  he  owned  them,  and  their  eyes  followed  him 
with  a  sort  of  a  lazy  mechanical  suspicion  which 
was  militant  in  none  of  its  moods. 

Johnnie  was  suffering  from  a  desire  to  be 
splendidly  imprudent.  He  wanted  to  make  the 
situation  gasp  and  thrill  and  tremble.  From  time 
to  time  he  tried  to  conceive  the  idea  of  his  being 
caught,  but  to  save  his  eyes  he  could  not  imagine 
it.  Such  an  event  was  impossible  to  his  peculiar 
breed  of  fatalism  which  could  not  have  conceded 
death  until  he  had  mouldered  seven  years. 

He  arrived  at  the  Cafe"  Aguacate  and  found  it 
much  changed.  The  thick  wooden  shutters  were 
up  to  keep  light  from  shining  into  the  street. 
Inside,  there  were  only  a  few  Spanish  officers. 
Johnnie  walked  to  the  private  rooms  at  the  rear. 
He  found  an  empty  one  and  pressed  the  electric 
button.  When  he  had  passed  through  the  main 


THIS    MAJESTIC  LIE  213 

part  of  the  cafe  no  one  had  noted  him.  The  first 
to  recognise  him  was  the  waiter  who  answered 
the  bell.  This  worthy  man  turned  to  stone 
before  the  presence  of  Johnnie. 

"  Buenos  noche,  Francisco,"  said  the  spy, 
enjoying  himself.  "  I  have  hunger.  Bring  me 
bread,  butter,  eggs  and  coffee."  There  was  a 
silence;  .the  waiter  did  not  move  ;  Johnnie  smiled 
casually  at  him. 

The  man's  throat  moved ;  then  like  one  sud- 
denly re-endowed  with  life,  he  bolted  from  the 
room.  After  a  long  time,  he  returned  with  the 
proprietor  of  the  place.  In  the  wicked  eye  of  the 
latter  there  gleamed  the  light  of  a  plan.  He  did 
not  respond  to  Johnnie's  genial  greeting,  but  at 
once  proceeded  to  develop  his  position.  "  John- 
nie," he  said,  "  bread  is  very  dear  in  Havana.  It 
is  very  dear." 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  Johnnie  looking  keenly  at  the 
speaker.  He  understood  at  once  that  here  was 
some  sort  of  an  attack  upon  him. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  proprietor  of  the  Caf£ 
Aguacate  slowly  and  softly.  "  It  is  very  dear.  I 
think  to-night  one  small  bit  of  bread  will  cost  you 
one  centene — in  advance."  A  centene  approxi- 
mates five  dollars  in  gold." 

The  spy's  face  did   not  change.     He  appeared 


214  WOUNDS   IN    THE   RAIN 

to  reflect.  "  And  how  much  for  the  butter  ?  "  he 
asked  at  last. 

The  proprietor  gestured.  "  There  is  no  butter. 
Do  you  think  we  can  have  everything  with  those 
Yankee  pigs  sitting  out  there  on  their  ships  ?  " 

"  And  how  much  for  the  coffee  ?  "  asked  Johnnie 
musingly. 

Again  the  two  men  surveyed  each  other 
during  a  period  of  silence.  Then  the  proprietor 
said  gently,  "  I  think  your  coffee  will  cost  you 
about  two  centenes." 

"  And  the  eggs  ?  " 

"  Eggs  are  very  dear.  I  think  eggs  would  cost 
you  about  three  centenes  for  each  one/' 

The  new  looked  at  the  old  ;  the  North  Atlantic 
looked  at  the  Mediterranean ;  the  wooden  nut- 
meg looked  at  the  olive.  Johnnie  slowly  took 
six  centenes  from  his  pocket  and  laid  them  on  the 
table.  "  That's  for  bread,  coffee,  and  one  egg.  I 
don't  think  I  could  eat  more  than  one  egg  to- 
night. I'm  not  so  hungry  as  I  was." 

The  proprietor  held  a  perpendicular  finger  and 
tapped  the  table  with  it.  "  Oh,  sefior,"  he  said 
politely,  "  I  think  you  would  like  two  eggs." 

Johnnie  saw  the  finger.  He  understood  It. 
"  Ye-e-es,"  he  drawled.  "  I  would  like  two  eggs." 
He  placed  three  more  centenes  on  the  table. 


THIS    MAJESTIC    LIE  21$ 

"  And  a  little  thing  for  the  waiter  ?  I  am  sure 
his  services  will  be  excellent,  invaluable." 

"  Ye-e-es,  for  the  waiter."  Another  centene  was 
laid  on  the  table. 

The  proprietor  bowed  and  preceded  the  waiter 
out  of  the  room.  There  was  a  mirror  on  the  wall 
and,  springing  to  his  feet,  the  spy  thrust  his  face 
close  to  the  honest  glass.  "  Well,  I'm  damned  !  " 
he  ejaculated.  "  Is  this  me  or  is  this  the  Honour- 
able D.  Hayseed  Whiskers  of  Kansas  ?  Who  am 
I,  anyhow  ?  Five  dollars  in  gold !  .  .  .  Say, 
these  people  are  clever.  They  know  their  business, 
they  do.  Bread,  coffee  and  two  eggs  and  not 
even  sure  of  getting  it !  Fifty  dol —  .  .  . 
Never  mind ;  wait  until  the  war  is  over.  Fifty 
dollars  gold  !  "  He  sat  for  a  long  time;  nothing 
happened.  (<  Eh,"  he  said  at  last,  "  that's  the 
game."  As  the  front  door  of  the  cafe  closed 
upon  him,  he  heard  the  proprietor  and  one  of  the 
waiters  burst  into  derisive  laughter. 

Martha  was  waiting  for  him.  "  And  here  ye 
are,  safe  back,"  she  said  with  delight  as  she  let  him 
enter.  "  And  did  ye  bring  the  bread  ?  Did  ye 
bring  the  bread  ?  " 

But  she  saw  that  he  was  raging  like  a  lunatic. 
His  face  was  red  and  swollen  with  temper; 
his  eyes  shot  forth  gleams.  Presently  he  stood 


2l6  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

before  her  in  the  patio  where  the  light  fell  on  him. 
"  Don't  speak  to  me,"  he  choked  out  waving  his 
arms.  "  Don't  speak  to  me  !  Damn  your  bread  ! 
I  went  to  the  Cafe  Aguacate  !  Oh,  yes,  I  went 
there !  Of  course,  I  did !  And  do  you  know 
what  they  did  to  me?  No  !  Oh,  they  didn't  do 
anything  to  me  at  all !  Not  a  thing  !  Fifty  dol- 
lars !  Ten  gold  pieces  !  " 

"  May  the  saints  guard  us,"  cried  Martha.  "  And 
what  was  that  for  ?  " 

"  Because  they  wanted  them  more  than  I  did," 
snarled  Johnnie.  "  Don't  you  see  the  game.  I 
go  into  the  Cafe  Aguacate.  The  owner  of  the 
place  says  to  himself,  '  Hello !  Here's  that 
Yankee  what  they  call  Johnnie.  He's  got  no 
right  here  in  Havana.  Guess  I'll  peach  on  him 
to  the  police.  They'll  put  him  in  Cabanas  as  a 
spy.'  Then  he  does  a  little  more  thinking,  and 
finally  he  says,  '  No ;  I  guess  I  won't  peach  on 
him  just  this  minute.  First,  I'll  take  a  small 
flyer  myself.'  So  in  he  comes  and  looks  me  right 
in  the  eye  and  says,  '  Excuse  me  but  it  will  be  a 
centene  for  the  bread,  a  centene  for  the  coffee, 
and  eggs  are  at  three  centenes  each.  Besides 
there  will  be  a  small  matter  of  another  gold-piece 
for  the  waiter.'  I  think  this  over.  I  think  it  over 
hard.  .  .  .  He's  clever  anyhow.  .  .  .  When  this 


THIS    MAJESTIC    LIE  217 

cruel  war  is  over,  I'll  be  after  him.  .  .  .  I'm  a 
nice  secret  agent  of  the  United  States  government, 
I  am.  I  come  here  to  be  too  clever  for  all  the 
Spanish  police,  and  the  first  thing  I  do  is  get 
buncoed  by  a  rotten,  little  thimble-rigger  in  a  cafe. 
Oh,  yes,  I'm  all  right." 

"  May  the  saints  %  guard  us  !  "  cried  Martha 
again.  "  I'm  old  enough  to  be  your  mother,  or 
maybe,  your  grandmother,  and  I've  seen  a  lot ; 
but  it's  many  a  year  since  I  laid  eyes  on  such  a 
ign'rant  and  wrong-headed  little,  red  Indian  as  ye 
are !  Why  didn't  ye  take  my  advice  and  stay 
here  in  the  house  with  decency  and  comfort. 
But  he  must  be  all  for  doing  everything  high  and 
mighty.  The  Caf6  Aguacate,  if  ye  please.  No 
plain  food  for  his  highness.  He  turns  up  his  nose 
at  cod-fish  sal— 

"  Thunder  and  lightnin',  are  you  going  to  ram 
that  thing  down  my  throat  every  two  minutes,  are 
you  ? "  And  in  truth  she  could  see  that  one 
more  reference  to  that  illustrious  viand  would 
break  the  back  of  Johnnie's  gentle  disposition  as 
one  breaks  a  twig  on  the  knee.  She  shifted  with 
Celtic  ease.  "  Did  ye  bring  the  bread  ?  "  she 
asked. 

He  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment  and  suddenly 
laughed.  "  I  forgot  to  mention,"  he  informed 


2l8  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

her  impressively,  "that  they  did  not  take  the 
trouble  to  give  me  either  the  bread,  the  coffee  or 
the  eggs." 

"  The  powers  !  "  cried  Martha. 

"  But  it's  all  right.  I  stopped  at  a  shop." 
From  his  pockets,  he  brought  a  small  loaf,  some 
kind  of  German  sausage  and  a  flask  of  Jamaica 
rum.  "About  all  I  could  get.  And  they  didn't 
want  to  sell  them  either.  They  expect  presently 
they  can  exchange  a  box  of  sardines  for  a  grand 
piano." 

"  '  We  are  not  blockaded  by  the  Yankee  war- 
ships ;  we  are  blockaded  by  our  grocers,'  "  said 
Martha,  quoting  the  epidemic  Havana  saying. 
But  she  did  not  delay  long  from  the  little  loaf. 
She  cut  a  slice  from  it  and  sat  eagerly  munching. 
Johnnie  seemed  more  interested  in  the  Jamaica 
rum.  He  looked  up  from  his  second  glass,  how- 
ever, because  he  heard  a  peculiar  sound.  The  old 
woman  was  weeping.  "  Hey,  what's  this  ?  "  he 
demanded  in  distress,  but  with  the  manner  of  a 
man  who  thinks  gruffness  is  the  only  thing  that 
will  make  people  feel  better  and  cease.  "  What's 
this  anyhow  ?  What  are  you  cryin*  for  ?  " 

"  It's  the  bread,"  sobbed  Martha.  "  It's  the— 
the  br-e-a-ddd." 

"  Huh  ?     What's  the  matter  with  it  ?  " 


THIS   MAJESTIC   LIE  219 

"  It's  so  good,  so  g-good."  The  rain  of  tears 
did  not  prevent  her  from  continuing  her  unusual 
report.  "  Oh,  it's  so  good  !  This  is  the  first  in 
weeks.  I  didn't  know  bread  could  be  so  1-like 
heaven." 

"  Here,"  said  Johnnie  seriously.  "  Take  a  little 
mouthful  of  this  rum.  It  will  do  you  good." 

"  No  ;  I  only  want  the  bub-bub-bread." 

"  Well,  take  the  bread,  too.  .  .  .  There  you 
are.  Now  you  feel  better.  ...  By  Jove,  when 
I  think  of  that  Cafe  Aguacate  man !  Fifty  dollars 
gold  !  And  then  not  to  get  anything  either.  Say, 
after  the  war,  I'm  going  there,  and  I'm  just  going 
to  raze  that  place  to  the  ground.  You  see  \  I'll 
make  him  think  he  can  charge  ME  fifteen  dollars 
for  an  egg.  .  .  .  And  then  not  give  me  the  egg." 


Ill 

Johnnie's  subsequent  activity  in  Havana  could 
truthfully  be  related  in  part  to  a  certain  tempo- 
rary price  of  eggs.  It  is  interesting  to  note  how 
close  that  famous  event  got  to  his  eye  so  that, 
according  to  the  law  of  perspective,  it  was  as  big 
as  the  Capitol  of  Washington,  where  centres  the 
spirit  of  his  nation.  Around  him,  he  felt  a  similar 


220  WOUNDS    IN  THE    RAIN 

and  ferocious  expression  of  life  which  informed 
him  too  plainly  that  if  he  was  caught,  he  was 
doomed.  Neither  the  garrison  nor  the  citizens  of 
Havana  would  tolerate  any  nonsense  in  regard  to 
him  if  he  was  caught.  He  would  have  the  steel 
screw  against  his  neck  in  short  order.  And  what 
was  the  main  thing  to  bear  him  up  against  the 
desire  to  run  away  before  his  work  was  done  ?  A 
certain  temporary  price  of  eggs  !  It  not  only  hid 
the  Capitol  at  Washington  ;  it  obscured  the 
dangers  in  Havana. 

Something  was  learned  of  the  Santa  Clara  bat- 
tery, because  one  morning  an  old  lady  in  black 
accompanied  by  a  young  man — evidently  her  son 
— visited  a  house  which  was  to  rent  on  the  height, 
in  rear  of  the  battery.  The  portero  was  too  lazy 
and  sleepy  to  show  them  over  the  premises,  but 
he  granted  them  permission  to  investigate  for 
themselves.  They  spent  most  of  their  time  on 
the  flat  parapeted  roof  of  the  house.  At  length 
they  came  down  and  said  that  the  place  did  not 
suit  them.  The  portero  went  to  sleep  again. 

Johnnie  was  never  discouraged  by  the  thought 
that  his  operations  would  be  of  small  benefit  to 
the  admiral  commanding  the  fleet  in  adjacent 
waters,  and  to  the  general  commanding  the  army 
which  was  not  going  to  attack  Havana  from  the 


THIS    MAJESTIC    LIE  221 

land  side.  At  that  time  it  was  all  the  world's 
opinion  that  the  army  from  Tampa  would  pres- 
ently appear  on  the  Cuban  beach  at  some  con- 
venient point  to  the  east  or  west  of  Havana.  It 
turned  out,  of  course,  that  the  condition  of  the 
defences  of  Havana  was  of  not  the  slightest  mili- 
tary importance  to  the  United  States  since  the 
city  was  never  attacked  either  by  land  or  sea. 
But  Johnnie  could  not  foresee  this.  He  continued 
to  take  his  fancy  risk,  continued  his  majestic  lie, 
with  satisfaction,  sometimes  with  delight,  and 
with  pride.  And  in  the  psychologic  distance  was 
old  Martha  dancing  with  fear  and  shouting: 
"  Oh,  Johnnie,  me  son,  what  a  born  fool  ye  are  !  " 

Sometimes  she  would  address  him  thus  :  "  And 
when  ye  learn  all  this,  how  are  ye  goin'  to  get  out 
with  it?  "  She  was  contemptuous. 

He  would  reply,  as  serious  as  a  Cossack  in  his 
fatalism.  "  Oh,  I'll  get  out  some  way." 

His  manoeuvres  in  the  vicinity  of  Regla  and 
Guanabacoa  were  of  a  brilliant  character.  He 
haunted  the  sunny  long  grass  in  the  manner  of  a 
jack-rabbit.  Sometimes  he  slept  under  a  palm, 
dreaming  of  the  American  advance  fighting  its 
way  along  the  military  road  to  the  foot  of  Spanish 
defences.  Even  when  awake,  he  often  dreamed 
it  and  thought  of  the  all-day  crash  and  hot  roar 


222  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

of  an  assault.  Without  consulting  Washington, 
he  had  decided  that  Havana  should  be  attacked 
from  the  south-east.  An  advance  from  the  west 
could  be  contested  right  up  to  the  bar  of  the 
Hotel  Inglaterra,  but  when  the  first  ridge  in  the 
south-east  would  be  taken,  the  whole  city  with 
most  of  its  defences  would  lie  under  the  American 
siege  guns.  And  the  approach  to  this  position 
was  as  reasonable  as  is  any  approach  toward  the 
muzzles  of  magazine  rifles.  Johnnie  viewed  the 
grassy  fields  always  as  a  prospective  battle-ground, 
and  one  can  see  him  lying  there,  filling  the  land- 
scape with  visions  of  slow-crawling  black  infantry 
columns,  galloping  batteries  of  artillery,  streaks 
of  faint  blue  smoke  marking  the  modern  firing 
lines,  clouds  of  dust,  a  vision  of  ten  thousand  trag- 
edies. And  his  ears  heard  the  noises. 

But  he  was  no  idle  shepherd  boy  with  a  head 
haunted  by  sombre  and  glorious  fancies.  On  the 
contrary,  he  was  much  occupied  with  practical 
matters.  Some  months  after  the  close  of  the 
war,  he  asked  me :  "  Were  you  ever  fired  at  from 
very  near  ?  "  I  explained  some  experiences  which 
I  had  stupidly  esteemed  as  having  been  rather 
near.  "  But  did  you  ever  have  'm  fire  a  volley  on 
you  from  close — very  close — say,  thirty  feet  ?  " 

Highly  scandalised  I  answered,  "  No  ;  in  that 


THIS    MAJESTIC    LIE  223 

case,  I  would  not  be  the  crowning  feature  of  the 
Smithsonian  Institute." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  it's  a  funny  effect.  You  feel 
as  every  hair  on  your  head  had  been  snatched  out 
by  the  roots."  Questioned  further  he  said,  "  I 
walked  right  up  on  a  Spanish  outpost  at  day- 
break once,  and  about  twenty  men  let  go  at  me. 
Thought  I  was  a  Cuban  army,  I  suppose." 

"  What  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  run." 

"  Did  they  hit  you,  at  all  ?  " 

"  Naw." 

It  had  been  arranged  that  some  light  ship  of 
the  squadron  should  rendezvous  with  him  at  a 
certain  lonely  spot  on  the  coast  on  a  certain  day 
and  hour  and  pick  him  up.  He  was  to  wave 
something  white.  His  shirt  was  not  white,  but  he 
waved  it  whenever  he  could  see  the  signal-tops 
of  a  war-ship.  It  was  a  very  tattered  banner. 
After  a  ten-mile  scramble  through  almost  pathless 
thickets,  he  had  very  little  on  him  which  respect- 
able men  would  call  a  shirt,  and  the  less  one  says 
about  his  trousers  the  better.  This  naked  savage, 
then,  walked  all  day  up  and  down  a  small  bit  of 
beach  waving  a  brown  rag.  At  night,  he  slept  in 
the  sand.  At  full  daybreak  he  began  to  wave 
his  rag  ;  at  noon  he  was  waving  his  rag  ;  at  night- 


224  WOUNDS    IN    THE  RAIN 

fall  he  donned  his  rag  and  strove  to  think  of  it  as 
a  shirt.  Thus  passed  two  days,  and  nothing  had 
happened.  Then  he  retraced  a  twenty-five  mile 
way  to  the  house  of  old  Martha.  At  first  she 
took  him  to  be  one  of  Havana's  terrible  beggars 
and  cried,  "And  do  you  come  here  for  alms? 
Look  out,  that  I  do  not  beg  of  you."  The  one 
unchanged  thing  was  his  laugh  of  pure  mockery. 
When  she  heard  it,  she  dragged  him  through  the 
door.  He  paid  no  heed  to  her  ejaculations'  but 
went  straight  to  where  he  had  hidden  some  gold. 
As  he  was  untying  a  bit  of  string  from  the  neck 
of  a  small  bag,  he  said,  "  How  is  little  Alfred?" 
"  Recovered,  thank  Heaven."  He  handed  Martha 
a  piece  of  gold.  "  Take  this  and  buy  what  you 
can  on  the  corner.  I'm  hungry."  Martha  de- 
parted with  expedition.  Upon  her  return,  she 
was  beaming.  She  had  foraged  a  thin  chicken, 
a  bunch  of  radishes  and  two  bottles  of  wine. 
Johnnie  had  finished  the  radishes  and  one  bottle 
of  wine  when  the  chicken  was  still  a  long  way 
from  the  table.  He  called  stoutly  for  more,  and 
so  Martha  passed  again  into  the  street  with  an- 
other gold  piece.  She  bought  more  radishes, 
more  wine  and  some  cheese.  They  had  a  grand 
feast,  with  Johnnie  audibly  wondering  until  a  late 
hour  why  he  had  waved  his  rag  in  vain. 


THIS   MAJESTIC    LIE  225 

There  was  no  end  to  his  suspense,  no  end  to 
his  work.  He  knew  everything.  He  was  an  ani- 
mate guide-book.  After  he  knew  a  thing  once, 
he  verified  it  in  several  different  ways  in  order  to 
make  sure.  He  fitted  himself  for  a  useful  career, 
like  a  young  man  in  a  college — with  the  difference 
that  the  shadow  of  the  garote  fell  ever  upon  his 
way,  and  that  he  was  occasionally  shot  at,  and  that 
he  could  not  get  enough  to  eat,  and  that  his  exist- 
ence was  apparently  forgotten,  and  that  he  con- 
tracted the  fever.  But 

One  cannot  think  of  the  terms  in  which  to  de- 
scribe a  futility  so  vast,  so  colossal.  He  had  builded 
a  little  boat,  and  the  sea  had  receded  and  left  him 
and  his  boat  a  thousand  miles  inland  on  the  top 
of  a  mountain.  The  war-fate  had  left  Havana  out 
of  its  plan  and  thus  isolated  Johnnie  and  his  sev- 
eral pounds  of  useful  information.  The  war-fate 
left  Havana  to  become  the  somewhat  indignant 
victim  of  a  peaceful  occupation  at  the  close  of  the 
conflict,  and  Johnnie's  data  were  worth  as  much  as 
a  carpenter's  lien  on  the  north  pole.  He  had 
suffered  and  laboured  for  about  as  complete  a  bit 
of  absolute  nothing  as  one  could  invent.  If  the 
company  which  owned  the  sugar  plantation  had 
not  generously  continued  his  salary  during  the 
war,  he  would  not  have  been  able  to  pay  his  ex- 
15 


226  WOUNDS    IN    THE   RAIN 

penses  on  the  amount  allowed  him  by  the  govern- 
ment, which,  by  the  way,  was  a  more  complete 
bit  of  absolute  nothing  than  one  could  possibly 
invent. 


IV 

I  met  Johnnie  in  Havana  in  October,  1898.  If 
I  remember  rightly  the  U.  S.  S.  Resolute  and  the 
U.  S.  S.  Scorpion  were  in  the  harbour,  but  beyond 
these  two  terrible  engines  of  destruction  there  were 
not  as  yet  any  of  the  more  stern  signs  of  the 
American  success.  Many  Americans  were  to  be 
seen  in  the  streets  of  Havana  where  they  were  not 
in  any  way  molested.  Among  them  was  Johnnie 
in  white  duck  and  a  straw  hat,  cool,  complacent 
and  with  eyes  rather  more  steady  than  ever.  I 
addressed  him  upon  the  subject  of  his  supreme 
failure,  but  I  could  not  perturb  his  philosophy.  In 
reply  he  simply  asked  me  to  dinner.  "  Come  to 
the  Cafe  Aguacate  at  7:30  to-night,"  he  said.  "  I 
haven't  been  there  in  a  long  time.  We  shall  see 
if  they  cook  as  well  as  ever."  I  turned  up 
promptly  and  found  Johnnie  in  a  private  room 
smoking  a  cigar  in  the  presence  of  a  waiter  who 
was  blue  in  the  gills.  "  I've  ordered  the  dinner," 


THIS   MAJESTIC   LIE  227 

he  said  cheerfully.  "-Now  I  want  to  see  if  you 
won't  be  surprised  how  well  they  can  do  here  in 
Havana."  I  was  surprised.  I  was  dumfounded. 
Rarely  in  the  history  of  the  world  have  two  ra- 
tional men  sat  down  to  such  a  dinner.  It  must 
have  taxed  the  ability  and  endurance  of  the  entire 
working  force  of  the  establishment  to  provide  it. 
The  variety  of  dishes  was  of  course  related  to  the 
markets  of  Havana,  but  the  abundance  and  general 
profligacy  was  related  only  to  Johnnie's  imagi- 
nation. Neither  of  us  had  an  appetite.  Our  fan- 
cies fled  in  confusion  before  this  puzzling  luxury. 
I  looked  at  Johnnie  as  if  he  were  a  native  of 
Thibet.  I  had  thought  him  to  be  a  most  simple 
man,  and  here  I  found  him  revelling  in  food  like  a 
fat,  old  senator  of  Rome's  decadence.  And  if  the 
dinner  itself  put  me  to  open-eyed  amazement,  the 
names  of  the  wines  finished  everything.  Appar- 
ently Johnny  had  had  but  one  standard,  and  that 
was  the  cost.  If  a  wine  had  been  very  expensive, 
he  had  ordered  it.  I  began  to  think  him  probably 
a  maniac.  At  any  rate,  I  was  sure  that  we  were 
both  fools.  Seeing  my  fixed  stare,  he  spoke  with 
affected  languor  :  "  I  wish  peacocks'  brains  and 
melted  pearls  were  to  be  had  here  in  Havana. 
We'd  have  'em."  Then  he  grinned.  As  a  mere 
skirmisher  I  said,  "  In  New  York,  we  think  we 


228  WOUNDS   IN  THE   RAIN 

dine  well;  but  really  this,  you  know — well — 
Havana " 

Johnnie  waved  his  hand  pompously.  "  Oh,  I 
know." 

Directly  after  coffee,  Johnnie  excused  himself 
for  a  moment  and  left  the  room.  When  he  re- 
turned he  said  briskly,  "  Well,  are  you  ready  to 
go  ?  "  As  soon  as  we  were  in  a  cab  and  safely  out 
of  hearing  of  the  Caf£  Aguacate,  Johnnie  lay  back 
and  laughed  long  and  joyously. 

But  I  was  very  serious.  "  Look  here,  Johnnie," 
I  said  to  him  solemnly,  "  when  you  invite  me  to 
dine  with  you,  don't  you  ever  do  that  again.  And 
I'll  tell  you  one  thing — when  you  dine  with  me 
you  will  probably  get  the  ordinary  table  d'hote." 
I  was  an  older  man. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  cried.  And  then  he 
too  grew  serious.  "  Well,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned 
— as  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  he  said,  "  the  war  is 
now  over." 


WAR  MEMORIES 

"  BUT  to  get  the  real  thing !  "  cried  Vernall,  the 
war-correspondent.  "  It  seems  impossible  !  It  is 
because  war  is  neither  magnificent  nor  squalid ;  it  is 
simply  life,  and  an  expression  of  life  can  always 
evade  us.  We  can  never  tell  life,  one  to  another, 
although  sometimes  we  think  we  can." 

When  I  climbed  aboard  the  despatch-boat  at 
Key  West,  the  mate  told  me  irritably  that  as  soon 
as  we  crossed  the  bar,  we  would  find  ourselves 
monkey-climbing  over  heavy  seas.  It  wasn't  my 
fault,  but  he  seemed  to  insinuate  that  it  was  all  a 
result  of  my  incapacity.  There  were  four  corre- 
spondents in  the  party.  The  leader  of  us  came 
aboard  with  a  huge  bunch  of  bananas,  which  he 
hung  like  a  chandelier  in  the  centre  of  the  tiny 
cabin.  We  made  acquaintance  over,  around,  and 
under  this  bunch  of  bananas,  which  really  occupied 
the  cabin  as  a  soldier  occupies  a  sentry  box.  But 
the  bunch  did  not  become  really  aggressive  until 

we  were  well  at  sea.     Then    it  began    to   spar. 

229 


230  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

With  the  first  roll  of  the  ship,  it  launched  its  hon- 
est pounds  at  McCurdy  and  knocked  him  wildly 
through  the  door  to  the  deck-rail,  where  he  hung 
cursing  hysterically.  Without  a  moment's  pause, 
it  made  for  me.  I  flung  myself  head-first  into  my 
bunk  and  watched  the  demon  sweep  Brown- 
low  into  a  corner  and  wedge  his  knee  behind  a 
sea-chest.  Kary  gave  a  shrill  cry  and  fled.  The 
bunch  of  bananas  swung  to  and  fro,  silent,  deter- 
mined, ferocious,  looking  for  more  men.  It  had 
cleared  a  space  for  itself.  My  comrades  looked 
in  at  the  door,  calling  upon  me  to  grab  the  thing 
and  hold  it.  I  pointed  out  to  them  the  security 
and  comfort  of  my  position.  They  were  angry. 
Finally  the  mate  came  and  lashed  the  thing  so 
that  it  could  not  prowl  about  the  cabin  and  assault 
innocent  war-correspondents.  You  see  ?  War ! 
A  bunch  of  bananas  rampant  because  the  ship 

rolled. 

•<t 

In  that  early  period  of  the  war  we  were  forced 
to  continue  our  dreams.  And  we  were  all  dream- 
ers, envisioning  the  seas  with  death  grapples,  ship 
and  ship.  Even  the  navy  grew  cynical.  Officers 
on  the  bridge  lifted  their  megaphones  and  told 
you  in  resigned  voices  that  they  were  out  of  ice, 
onions,  and  eggs.  At  other  times,  they  would 
shoot  quite  casually  at  us  with  six-pounders.  This 


WAR  MEMORIES  231 

industry  usually  progressed  in  the  night,  but  it 
sometimes  happened  in  the  day.  There  was  never 
any  resentment  on  our  side,  although  at  moments 
there  was  some  nervousness.  They  were  impres- 
sively quick  with  their  lanyards  ;  our  means  of 
replying  to  signals  were  correspondingly  slow. 
They  gave  you  opportunity  to  say,  "  Heaven  guard 
me !  "  Then  they  shot.  But  we  recognised  the 
propriety  of  it.  Everything  was  correct  save  the 
war,  which  lagged  and  lagged  and  lagged.  It  did 
not  play ;  it  was  not  a  gory  giant ;  it  was  a  bunch 
of  bananas  swung  in  the  middle  of  the  cabin. 

Once  we  had  the  honour  of  being  rammed  at 
midnight  by  the  U.  S.  S.  Machias.  In  fact  the  ex- 
ceeding industry  of  the  naval  commanders  of  the 
Cuban  blockading  fleet  caused  a  certain  liveliness 
to  at  times  penetrate  our  mediocre  existence. 
We  were  all  greatly  entertained  over  an  immediate 
prospect  of  being  either  killed  by  rapid  fire  guns, 
cut  in  half  by  the  ram  or  merely  drowned,  but 
even  our  great  longing  for  diversion  could  not 
cause  us  to  ever  again  go  near  the  Machias  on  a 
dark  night.  We  had  sailed  from  Key  West  on  a 
mission  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  coast  of 
Cuba,  and  steaming  due  east  and  some  thirty- 
five  miles  from  the  Cuban  land,  we  did  not  think 
we  were  liable  to  an  affair  with  any  of  the  fierce 


232  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

American  cruisers.  Suddenly  a  familiar  signal  of 
red  and  white  lights  flashed  like  a  brooch  of  jewels 
on  the  pall  that  covered  the  sea.  It  was  far  away 
and  tiny,  but  we  knew  all  about  it.  It  was  the 
electric  question  of  an  American  war-ship  and  it 
demanded  a  swift  answer  in  kind.  The  man  be- 
hind the  gun  !  What  about  the  man  in  front  of 
the  gun  ?  The  war-ship  signals  vanished  and  the 
sea  presented  nothing  but  a  smoky  black  stretch 
lit  with  the  hissing  white  tops  of  the  flying 
waves.  A  thin  line  of  flame  swept  from  a  gun. 

Thereafter  followed  one  of  those  silences  which 
had  become  so  peculiarly  instructive  to  the  block- 
ade-runner. Somewhere  in  the  darkness  we  knew 
that  a  slate-coloured  cruiser,  red  below  the  water- 
line  and  with  a  gold  scroll  on  her  bows,  was  flying 
over  the  waves  toward  us,  while  upon  the  dark 
decks  the  men  stood  at  general  quarters  in  silence 
about  the  long  thin  guns,  and -it  was  the  law  of 
life  and  death  that  we  should  make  true  answer 
in  about  the  twelfth  part  of  a  second.  Now  I 
shall  with  regret  disclose  a  certain  dreadful  secret 
of  the  despatch-boat  service.  Our  signals,  far 
from  being  electric,  were  two  lanterns  which  we 
kept  in  a  tub  and  covered  with  a  tarpaulin.  The 
tub  was  placed  just  forward  of  the  pilot-house, 
and  when  we  were  accosted  at  night  it  was  every- 


WAR    MEMORIES  233 

body's  duty  to  scramble  wildly  for  the  tub  and 
grab  out  the  lanterns  and  wave  them.  It 
amounted  to  a  slowness  of  speech.  I  remember 
a  story  of  an  army  sentry  who  upon  hearing  a 
noise  in  his  front  one  dark  night  called  his  usual 
sharp  query.  "  Halt — who's  there  ?  Halt  or 
I'll  fire  !  "  And  getting  no  immediate  response 
he  fired  even  as  he  had  said,  killing  a  man 'with  a 
hair-lip  who  unfortunately  could  not  arrange  his 
vocal  machinery  to  reply  in  season.  We  were 
something  like  a  boat  with  a  hair-lip.  And  some- 
times it  was  very  trying  to  the  nerves.  .  .  .  The 
pause  was  long.  Then  a  voice  spoke  from  the 
sea  through  a  megaphone.  It  was  faint  but 
clear.  "  What  ship  is  that  ?  "  No  one  hesitated 
over  his  answer  in  cases  of  this  kind.  Everybody 
was  desirous  of  imparting  fullest  information. 
There  was  another  pause.  Then  out  of  the  dark- 
ness flew  an  American  cruiser,  silent  as  death, 
handled  as  ferociously  as  if  the  devil  commanded 
her.  Again  the  little  voice  hailed  from  the 
bridge.  "What  ship  is  that  ?"  Evidently  the 
reply  to  the  first  hail  had  been  misunderstood  or 
not  heard.  This  time  the  voice  rang  with  men- 
ace, menace  of  immediate  and  certain  destruc- 
tion, and  the  last  word  was  intoned  savagely  and 
strangely  across  the  windy  darkness  as  if  the 


234  WOUNDS   IN    THE    RAIN 

officer  would  explain  that  the  cruiser  was  after 
either  fools  or  the  common  enemy.  The  yells  in 
return  did  not  stop  her.  She  was  hurling  herself 
forward  to  ram  us  amidships,  and  the  people  on 
the  little  Three  Friends  looked  at  a  tall  swoop- 
ing bow,  and  it  was  keener  than  any  knife  that 
has  ever  been  made.  As  the  cruiser  lunged 
every  man  imagined  the  gallant  and  famous  but 
frail  Three  Friends  cut  into  two  parts  as  neatly 
as  if  she  had  been  cheese.  But  there  was  a  sheer 
and  a  hard  sheer  to  starboard,  and  down  upon  our 
quarter  swung  a  monstrous  thing  larger  than  any 
ship  in  the  world — the  U.  S.  S.  Machias.  She 
had  a  freeboard  of  about  three  hundred  feet  and 
the  top  of  her  funnel  was  out  of  sight  in  the 
clouds  like  an  Alp.  I  shouldn't  wonder  that  at 
the  top  of  that  funnel  there  was  a  region  of  per- 
petual snow.  And  at  a  range  which  swiftly  nar- 
rowed to  nothing  every  gun  in  her  port-battery 
swung  deliberately  into  aim.  It  was  closer,  more 
deliciously  intimate  than  a  duel  across  a  hand- 
kerchief. We  all  had  an  opportunity  of  looking 
miles  down  the  muzzles  of  this  festive  artillery 
before  came  the  collision.  Then  the  Machias  reeled 
her  steel  shoulder  against  the  wooden  side  of  the 
Three  Friends  and  up  went  a  roar  as  if  a  vast 
shingle  roof  had  fallen.  The  poor  little  tug 


WAR   MEMORIES  235 

dipped  as  if  she  meant  to  pass  under  the  war-ship, 
staggered  and  finally  righted,  trembling  from 
head  to  foot.  The  cries  of  the  splintered  timbers 
ceased.  The  men  on  the  tug  gazed  at  each  other 
with  white  faces  shining  faintly  in  the  darkness. 
The  Machias  backed  away  even  as  the  Three 
Friends  drew  slowly  ahead,  and  again  we  were 
alone  with  the  piping  of  the  wind  and  the  slash 
of  the  gale-driven  water.  Later,  from  some 
hidden  part  of  the  sea,  the  bullish  eye  of  a  search- 
light looked  at  us  and  the  widening  white  rays 
bathed  us  in  the  glare.  There  was  another  hail. 
"  Hello  there,  Three  Friends  !  "  "  Ay,  ay,  sir !  " 
*'  Are  you  injured?"  Our  first  mate  had  taken 
a  lantern  and  was  studying  the  side  of  the  tug, 
and  we  held  our  breath  for  his  answer.  I  was 
sure  that  he  was  going  to  say  that  we  were  sink- 
ing. Surely  there  could  be  no  other  ending  to 
this  terrific  bloodthirsty  assault.  But  the  first 
mate  said,  "  No,  sir."  Instantly  the  glare  of  the 
search-light  was  gone ;  the  Machias  was  gone  ; 
the  incident  was  closed. 

I  was  dining  once  on  board  the  flag-ship,  the 
New  York,  armoured  cruiser.  It  was  the  junior 
officers'  mess,  and  when  the  coffee  came,  a  young 
ensign  went  to  the  piano  and  began  to  bang  out 
a  popular  tune.  It  was  a  cheerful  scene,  and  it 


236  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

resembled  only  a  cheerful  scene.  Suddenly  we 
heard  the  whistle  of  the  bos'n's  mate,  and  directly 
above  us,  it  seemed,  a  voice,  hoarse  as  that  of  a 
sea-lion,  bellowed  a  Command :  "  Man  the  port 
battery."  In  a  moment  the  table  was  vacant  ; 
the  popular  tune  ceased  in  a  jangle.  On  the  quar- 
ter-deck assembled  a  group  of  officers — spectators. 
The  quiet  evening  sea,  lit  with  faint  red  lights, 
went  peacefully  to  the  feet  of  a  verdant  shore. 
One  could  hear  the  far-away  measured  tumbling 
of  surf  upon  a  reef.  Only  this  sound  pulsed  in 
the  air.  The  great  grey  cruiser  was  as  still  as  the 
earth,  the  sea,  and  the  sky.  Then  they  let  off  a 
four-inch  gun  directly  under  my  feet.  I  thought 
it  turned  me  a  back-somersault.  That  was  the 
effect  upon  my  mind.  But  it  appears  I  did 
not  move.  The  shell  went  carousing  off  to 
the  Cuban  shore,  and  from  the  vegetation  there 
spirted  a  cloud  of  dust.  Some  of  the  officers  on 
the  quarter-deck  laughed.  Through  their  glasses 
they  had  seen  a  Spanish  column  of  cavalry  much 
agitated  by  the  appearance  of  this  shell  among 
them.  As  far  as  I  was  concerned,  there  was  noth- 
ing but  the  spirt  of  dust  from  the  side  of  a  long- 
suffering  island.  When  I  returned  to  my  coffee 
I  found  that  most  of  the  young  officers  had  also 
returned.  Japanese  boys  were  bringing  liquors. 


WAR   MEMORIES  237 

The  piano's  clattering  of  the  popular  air  was  often 
interrupted  by  the  boom  of  a  four-inch  gun.  A 
bunch  of  bananas ! 

One  day,  our  despatch-boat  found  the  shores 
of  Guantanamo  Bay  flowing  past  on  either  side. 
It  was  at  nightfall  and  on  the  eastward  point  a 
small  village  was  burning,  and  it  happened  that 
a  fiery  light  was  thrown  upon  some  palm-trees 
so  that  it  made  them  into  enormous  crimson 
feathers.  The  water  was  the  colour  of  blue  steel ; 
the  Cuban  woods  were  sombre  ;  high  shivered  the 
gory  feathers.  The  last  boatloads  of  the  marine 
battalion  were  pulling  for  the  beach.  The  marine 
officers  gave  me  generous  hospitality  to  the  camp 
on  the  hill.  That  night  there  was  an  alarm  and 
amid  a  stern  calling  of  orders  and  a  rushing  of 
men,  I  wandered  in  search  of  some  other  man  who 
had  no  occupation.  It  turned  out  to  be  the 
young  assistant  surgeon,  Gibbs.  We  foregathered 
in  the  centre  of  a  square  of  six  companies  of 
marines.  There  was  no  firing.  We  thought  it 
rather  comic.  The  next  night  there  was  an  alarm  ; 
there  was  some  firing  ;  we  lay  on  our  bellies ;  it 
was  no  longer  comic.  On  the  third  night  the 
alarm  came  early  ;  I  went  in  search  of  Gibbs,  but 
I  soon  gave  over  an  active  search  for  the  more 
congenial  occupation  of  lying  flat  and  feeling  the 


238  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

hot  hiss  of  the  bullets  trying  to  cut  my  hair.  For 
the  moment  I  was  no  longer  a  cynic.  I  was  a 
child  who,  in  a  fit  of  ignorance,  had  jumped  into 
the  vat  of  war.  I  heard  somebody  dying  near 
me.  He  was  dying  hard.  Hard.  It  took  him  a 
long  time  to  die.  He  breathed  as  all  noble  ma- 
chinery breathes  when  it  is  making  its  gallant 
strife  against  breaking,  breaking.  But  he  was 
going  to  break.  He  was  going  to  break.  It 
seemed  to  me,  this  breathing,  the  noise  of  a  heroic 
pump  which  strives  to  subdue  a  mud  which  comes 
upon  it  in  tons.  The  darkness  was  impenetrable. 
The  man  was  lying  in  some  depression  within 
seven  feet  of  me.  Every  wave,  vibration,  of  his 
anguish  beat  upon  my  senses.  He  was  long  past 
groaning.  There  was  only  the  bitter  strife  for  air 
which  pulsed  out  into  the  night  in  a  clear  pene- 
trating whistle  with  intervals  of  terrible  silence  in 
which  I  held  my  own  breath  in  the  common  un- 
conscious aspiration  to  help.  I  thought  this  man 
would  never  die.  I  wanted  him  to  die.  Ulti- 
mately he  died.  At  the  moment  the  adjutant 
came  bustling  along  erect  amid  the  spitting  bul- 
lets. I  knew  him  by  his  voice.  "  Where's  the 
doctor  ?  There's  some  wounded  men  over  there. 
Where's  the  doctor  ?  "  A  man  answered  briskly  : 
"  Just  died  this  minute,  sir."  It  was  as  if  he  had 


WAR    MEMORIES  239 

said  :  "  Just  gone  around  the  corner  this  minute, 
sir."  Despite  the  horror  of  this  night's  business, 
the  man's  mind  was  somehow  influenced  by  the 
coincidence  of  the  adjutant's  calling  aloud  for  the 
doctor  within  a  few  seconds  of  the  doctor's  death. 
It — what  shall  I  say?  It  interested  him,  this 
coincidence. 

The  day  broke  by  inches,  with  an  obvious  and 
maddening  reluctance.  From  some  unfathomable 
source  I  procured  an  opinion  that  my  friend  was 
not  dead  at  all — the  wild  and  quivering  darkness 
had  caused  me  to  misinterpret  a  few  shouted 
words.  At  length  the  land  brightened  in  a  vio- 
lent atmosphere,  the  perfect  dawning  of  a  tropic 
day,  and  in  this  light  I  saw  a  clump  of  men  near 
me.  At  first  I  thought  they  were  all  dead.  Then 
I  thought  they  were  all  asleep.  The  truth  was 
that  a  group  of  wan-faced,  exhausted  men  had  gone 
to  sleep  about  Gibbs*  body  so  closely  and  in  such 
abandoned  attitudes  that  one's  eye  could  not  pick 
the  living  from  the  dead  until  one  saw  that  a  cer- 
tain head  had  beneath  it  a  great  dark  pool. 

In  the  afternoon  a  lot  of  men  went  bathing,  and 
in  the  midst  of  this  festivity  firing  was  resumed. 
It  was  funny  to  see  the  men  come  scampering  out 
of  the  water,  grab  at  their  rifles  and  go  into  action 
attired  in  nought  but  their  cartridge-belts.  The 


240  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

attack  of  the  Spaniards  had  interrupted  in  some 
degree  the  services  over  the  graves  of  Gibbs  and 
some  others.  I  remember  Paine  came  ashore 
with  a  bottle  of  whisky  which  I  took  from  him 
violently.  My  faithful  shooting  boots  began  to 
hurt  me,  and  I  went  to  the  beach  and  poulticed 
my  feet  in  wet  clay,  sitting  on  the  little  rickety 
pier  near  where  the  corrugated  iron  cable-station 
showed  how  the  shells  slivered  through  it.  Some 
marines,  desirous  of  mementoes,  were  poking 
with  sticks  in  the  smoking  ruins  of  the  hamlet. 
Down  in  the  shallow  water  crabs  were  meander- 
ing among  the  weeds,  and  little  fishes  moved 
slowly  in  schools. 

The  next  day  we  went  shooting.  It  was  exactly 
like  quail  shooting.  I'll  tell  you.  These  guer- 
illas who  so  cursed  our  lives  had  a  well  some  five 
miles  away,  and  it  was  the  only  water  supply 
within  about  twelve  miles  of  the  marine  camp.  It 
was  decided  that  it  would  be  correct  to  go  forth 
and  destroy  the  well.  Captain  Elliott,  of  C  com- 
pany, was  to  take  his  men  with  Captain  Spicer's 
company,  D,  out  to  the  well,  beat  the  enemy 
away  and  destroy  everything.  He  was  to  start 
at  the  next  daybreak.  He  asked  me  if  I  cared  to 
go,  and,  of  course,  I  accepted  with  glee  ;  but  all 
that  night  I  was  afraid.  Bitterly  afraid.  The 


WAR    MEMORIES  241 

moon  was  very  bright,  shedding  a  magnificent 
radiance  upon  the  trenches.  I  watched  the  men 
of  C  and  D  companies  lying  so  tranquilly — some 
snoring,  confound  them — whereas  I  was  certain 
that  I  could  never  sleep  with  the  weight  of  a 
coming  battle  upon  my  mind,  a  battle  in  which 
the  poor  life  of  a  war-correspondent  might  easily 
be  taken  by  a  careless  enemy.  But  if  I  was 
frightened  I  was  also  very  cold.  It  was  a  chill 
night  and  I  wanted  a  heavy  top-coat  almost  as 
much  as  I  wanted  a  certificate  of  immunity  from 
rifle  bullets.  These  two  feelings  were  of  equal 
importance  to  my  mind.  They  were  twins.  El- 
liott came  and  flung  a  tent-fly  over  Lieutenant 
Bannon  and  me  as  we  lay  on  the  ground  back  of 
the  men.  Then  I  was  no  longer  cold,  but  I  was 
still  afraid,  for  tent-flies  cannot  mend  a  fear.  In 
the  morning  I  wished  for  some  mild  attack  of  dis- 
ease, something  that  would  incapacitate  me  for 
the  business  of  going  out  gratuitously  to  be  bom- 
barded. But  I  was  in  an  awkwardly  healthy  state, 
and  so  I  must  needs  smile  and  look  pleased  with 
my  prospects.  We  were  to  be  guided  by  fifty 
Cubans,  and  I  gave  up  all  dreams  of  a  postpone- 
ment when  I  saw  them  shambling  off  in  single 
file  through  the  cactus.  We  followed  presently. 

"  Where  you  people  goin'  to  ?  "     "  Don't  know, 
16 


242  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

Jim."  "Well,  good  luck  to  you,  boys.'*  This 
was  the  world's  lazy  inquiry  and  conventional 
God-speed.  Then  the  mysterious  wilderness 
swallowed  us. 

The  men  were  silent  because  they  were  ordered 
to  be  silent,  but  whatever  faces  I  could  observe 
were  marked  with  a  look  of  serious  meditation. 
As  they  trudged  slowly  in  single  file  they  were 
reflecting  upon — what  ?  I  don't  know.  But  at 
length  we  came  to  ground  more  open.  The  sea 
appeared  on  our  right,  and  we  saw  the  gunboat 
Dolphin  steaming  along  in  a  line  parallel  to  ours. 
I  was  as  glad  to  see  her  as  if  she  had  called  out 
my  name.  The  trail  wound  about  the  bases  of 
some  high  bare  spurs.  If  the  Spaniards  had  occu- 
pied them  I  don't  see  how  we  could  have  gone 
further.  But  upon  them  were  only  the  dove- 
voiced  guerilla  scouts  calling  back  into  the  hills 
the  news  of  our  approach.  The  effect  of  sound  is 
of  course  relative.  I  am  sure  I  have  never  heard 
such  a  horrible  sound  as  the  beautiful  cooing  of 
the  wood-dove  when  I  was  certain  that  it  came 
from  the  yellow  throat  of  a  guerilla.  Elliott  sent 
Lieutenant  Lucas  with  his  platoon  to  ascend  the 
hills  and  cover  our  advance  by  the  trail.  We 
halted  and  watched  them  climb,  a  long  black 
streak  of  men  in  the  vivid  sunshine  of  the  hill- 


WAR   MEMORIES  243 

side.  We  did  not  know  how  tall  were  these  hills 
until  we  saw  Lucas  and  his  men  on  top,  and  they 
were  no  larger  than  specks.  We  marched  on 
until,  at  last,  we  heard — it  seemed  in  the  sky — 
the  sputter  of  firing.  This  devil's  dance  was  be- 
gun. The  proper  strategic  movement  to  cover 
the  crisis  seemed  to  me  to  be  to  run  away  home 
and  swear  I  had  never  started  on  this  expedition. 
But  Elliott  yelled  :  "  Now,  men  ;  straight  up  this 
hill."  The  men  charged  up  against  the  cactus, 
and,  because  I  cared  for  the  opinion  of  others,  I 
found  myself  tagging  along  close  at  Elliott's  heels. 
I  don't  know  how  I  got  up  that  hill,  but  I  think 
it  was  because  I  was  afraid  to  be  left  behind.  The 
immediate  rear  did  not  look  safe.  The  crowd  of 
strong  young  marines  afforded  the  only  spectacle 
of  provisional  security.  So  I  tagged  along  at 
Elliott's  heels.  The  hill  was  as  steep  as  a  Swiss 
roof.  From  it  sprang  out  great  pillars  of  cactus, 
and  the  human  instinct  was  to  assist  one's  self  in 
the  ascent  by  grasping  cactus  with  one's  hands. 
I  remember  the  watch  I  had  to  keep  upon  this 
human  instinct  even  when  the  sound  of  the  bullets 
was  attracting  my  nervous  attention.  However, 
the  attractive  thing  to  my  sense  at  the  time  was 
the  fact  that  every  man  of  the  marines  was  also 
climbing  away  like  mad.  It  was  one  thing  for 


244  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

Elliott,  Spicer,  Neville,  Shaw  and  Bannon ;  it  was 
another  thing  for  me  ;  but — what  in  the  devil  was 
it  to  the  men  ?  Not  the  same  thing  surely.  It 
was  perfectly  easy  for  any  marine  to  get  overcome 
by  the  burning  heat  and,  lying  down,  bequeath 
the  work  and  the  danger  to  his  comrades.  The 
fine  thing  about  "  the  men  "  is  that  you  can't  ex- 
plain them.  I  mean  when  you  take  them  collect- 
ively. They  do  a  thing,  and  afterward  you  find 
that  they  have  done  it  because  they  have  done  it. 
However,  when  Elliott  arrived  at  the  top  of  the 
ridge,  myself  and  many  other  men  were  with  him. 
But  there  was  no  battle  scene.  Off  on  another 
ridge  we  could  see  Lucas*  men  and  the  Cubans 
peppering  away  into  a  valley.  The  bullets  about 
our  ears  were  really  intended  to  lodge  in  them. 
We  went  over  there. 

I  walked  along  the  firing  line  and  looked  at  the 
men.  I  kept  somewhat  on  what  I  shall  call  the 
lee  side  of  the  ridge.  Why  ?  Because  I  was 
afraid  of  being  shot.  No  other  reason.  Most  of 
the  men  as  they  lay  flat,  shooting,  looked  con- 
tented, almost  happy.  They  were  pleased,  these 
men,  at  the  situation.  I  don't  know.  I  cannot 
imagine.  But  they  were  pleased,  at  any  rate.  I 
wasn't  pleased.  I  was  picturing  defeat.  I  was 
saying  to  myself : — "  Now  if  the  enemy  should 


WAR    MEMORIES  245 

suddenly  do  so-and-so,  or  so-and-so,  why — what 
would  become  of  me?"  During  these  first  few 
moments  I  did  not  see  the  Spanish  position  be- 
cause— I  was  afraid  to  look  at  it.  Bullets  were 
hissing  and  spitting  over  the  crest  of  the  ridge  in 
such  showers  as  to  make  observation  to  be  a  task 
for  a  brave  man.  No,  now,  look  here,  why  the 
deuce  should  I  have  stuck  my  head  up,  eh  ?  Why  ? 
Well,  at  any  rate,  I  didn't  until  it  seemed  to  be  a 
far  less  thing  than  most  of  the  men  were  doing  as 
if  they  liked  it.  Then  I  saw  nothing.  At  least 
it  was  only  the  bottom  of  a  small  valley.  In  this 
valley  there  was  a  thicket — a  big  thicket — and 
this  thicket  seemed  to  be  crowded  with  a  myste- 
rious class  of  persons  who  were  evidently  trying  to 
kill  us.  Our  enemies  ?  Yes — perhaps — I  suppose 
so.  Leave  that  to  the  people  in  the  streets  at 
home.  They  know  and  cry  against  the  public 
enemy,  but  when  men  go  into  actual  battle  not 
one  in  a  thousand  concerns  himself  with  an  animus 
against  the  men  who  face  him.  The  great  desire 
is  to  beat  them — beat  them  whoever  they  are  as  a 
matter,  first,  of  personal  safety,  second,  of  personal 
glory.  It  is  always  safest  to  make  the  other  chap 
quickly  run  away.  And  as  he  runs  away,  one 
feels,  as  one  tries  to  hit  him  in  the  back  and 
knock  him  sprawling,  that  he  must  be  a  very  good 


246  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

and  sensible  fellow.  But  these  people  apparently 
did  not  mean  to  run  away.  They  clung  to  their 
thicket  and,  amid  the  roar  of  the  firing,  one  could 
sometimes  hear  their  wild  yells  of  insult  and  de- 
fiance. They  were  actually  the  most  obstinate, 
headstrong,  mulish  people  that  you  could  ever  im- 
agine. The  Dolphin  was  throwing  shells  into  their 
immediate  vicinity  and  the  fire  from  the  marines 
and  Cubans  was  very  rapid  and  heavy,  but  still 
those  incomprehensible  mortals  remained  in  their 
thicket.  The  scene  on  the  top  of  the  ridge  was 
very  wild,  but  there  was  only  one  truly  romantic 
figure.  This  was  a  Cuban  officer  who  held  in  one 
hand  a  great  glittering  machete  and  in  the  other 
a  cocked  revolver.  He  posed  like  a  statue  of 
victory.  Afterwards  he  confessed  to  me  that  he 
alone  had  been  responsible  for  the  winning  of  the 
fight.  But  outside  of  this  splendid  person  it  was 
simply  a  picture  of  men  at  work,  men  terribly 
hard  at  work,  red-faced,  sweating,  gasping  toilers. 
A  Cuban  negro  soldier  was  shot  though  the 
heart  and  one  man  took  the  body  on  his  back  and 
another  took  it  by  its  feet  and  trundled  away  to- 
ward the  rear  looking  precisely  like  a  wheel- 
barrow. A  man  in  C  company  was  shot  through 
the  ankle  and  he  sat  behind  the  line  nursing  his 
wound.  Apparently  he  was  pleased  with  it.  It 


WAR    MEMORIES  247 

seemed  to  suit  him.  I  don't  know  why.  But 
beside  him  sat  a  comrade  with  a  face  drawn, 
solemn  and  responsible  like  that  of  a  New  Eng- 
land spinster  at  the  bedside  of  a  sick  child. 

The  fight  banged  away  with  a  roar  like  a  forest 
fire.  Suddenly  a  marine  wriggled  out  of  the  firing 
line  and  came  frantically  to  me.  "  Say,  young 
feller,  I'll  give  you  five  dollars  for  a  drink  of 
whisky."  He  tried  to  force  into  my  hand  a  gold 
piece.  "  Go  to  the  devil,"  said  I,  deeply  scandal- 
ised. "  Besides,  I  haven't  got  any  whisky," 
"  No,  but  look  here,"  he  beseeched  me.  "  If  I 
don't  get  a  drink  I'll  die.  And  I'll  give  you  five 
dollars  for  it.  Honest,  I  will."  I  finally  tried  to 
escape  from  him  by  walking  away,  but  he  followed 
at  my  heels,  importuning  me  with  all  the  exasper- 
ating persistence  of  a  professional  beggar  and  try- 
ing to  force  this  ghastly  gold  piece  into  my  hand. 
I  could  not  shake  him  off,  and  amid  that  clatter 
of  furious  fighting  I  found  myself  intensely  em- 
barrassed, and  glancing  fearfully  this  way  and  that 
way  to  make  sure  that  people  did  not  see  me,  the 
villain  and  his  gold.  In  vain  I  assured  him  that 
if  I  had  any  whisky  I  should  place  it  at  his  dis- 
posal. He  could  not  be  turned  away.  I  thought 
of  the  European  expedient  in  such  a  crisis — to 
jump  in  a  cab.  But  unfortunately In  the 


248  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

meantime  I  had  given  up  my  occupation  of  tag- 
ging at  Captain  Elliott's  heels,  because  his  business 
required  that  he  should  go  into  places  of  great 
danger.  But  from  time  to  time  I  was  under  his 
attention.  Once  he  turned  to  me  and  said  :  "  Mr. 
Vernall,  will  you  go  and  satisfy  yourself  who  those 
people  are  ?  "  Some  men  had  appeared  on  a  hill 
about  six  hundred  yards  from  our  left  flank. 
"  Yes,  sir,"  cried  I  with,  I  assure  you,  the  finest 
alacrity  and  cheerfulness,  and  my  tone  proved  to 
me  that  I  had  inherited  histrionic  abilities.  This 
tone  was  of  course  a  black  lie,  but  I  went  off 
briskly  and  was  as  jaunty  as  a  real  soldier  while 
all  the  time  my  heart  was  in  my  boots  and  I  was 
cursing  the  day  that  saw  me  landed  on  the  shores 
of  the  tragic  isle.  If  the  men  on  the  distant  hill 
had  been  guerillas,  my  future  might  have  been 
seriously  jeopardised,  but  I  had  not  gone  far  toward 
them  when  I  was  able  to  recognise  the  uniforms 
of  the  marine  corps.  Whereupon  I  scampered 
back  to  the  firing  line  and  with  the  same  alacrity 
and  cheerfulness  reported  my  information.  I 
mention  to  you  that  I  was  afraid,  because  there 
were  about  me  that  day  many  men  who  did  not 
seem  to  be  afraid  at  all,  men  with  quiet,  composed 
faces  who  went  about  this  business  as  if  they  pro- 
ceeded from  a  sense  of  habit.  They  were  not  old 


WAR   MEMORIES  249 

soldiers  ;  they  were  mainly  recruits,  but  many  of 
them  betrayed  all  the  emotion  and  merely  the 
emotion  that  one  sees  in  the  face  of  a  man  ear- 
nestly at  work. 

I  don't  know  how  long  the  action  lasted.  I  re- 
member deciding  in  my  own  mind  that  the  Span- 
iards stood  forty  minutes.  This  was  a  mere 
arbitrary  decision  based  on  nothing.  But  at  any 
rate  we  finally  arrived  at  the  satisfactory  moment 
when  the  enemy  began  to  run  away.  I  shall 
never  forget  how  my  courage  increased.  And 
then  began  the  great  bird  shooting.  From  the 
far  side  of  the  thicket  arose  an  easy  slope  covered 
with  plum-coloured  bush.  The  Spaniards  broke 
in  coveys  of  from  six  to  fifteen  men — or  birds — 
and  swarmed  up  this  slope.  The  marines  on  our 
ridge  then  had  some  fine,  open  field  shooting.  No 
charge  could  be  made  because  the  shells  from  the 
Dolphin  were  helping  the  Spaniards  to  evacuate 
the  thicket,  so  the  marines  had  to  be  content  with 
this  extraordinary  paraphrase  of  a  kind  of  sport. 
It  was  strangely  like  the  original.  The  shells 
from  the  Dolphin  were  the  dogs ;  dogs  who  went 
in  and  stirred  out  the  game.  The  marines  were 
suddenly  gentlemen  in  leggings,  alive  with  the 
sharp  instinct  which  marks  the  hunter.  The 
Spaniards  were  the  birds.  Yes,  they  were  the 


250  WOUNDS,  IN    THE    RAIN 

birds,  but  I  doubt  if  they  would  sympathise  with 
my  metaphors. 

We  destroyed  their  camp,  and  when  the  tiled 
roof  of  a  burning  house  fell  with  a  crash  it  was  so 
like  the  crash  of  a  strong  volley  of  musketry  that 
we  all  turned  with  a  start,  fearing  that  we  would 
have  to  fight  again  on  that  same  day.  And  this 
struck  me  at  least  as  being  an  impossible  thing. 
They  gave  us  water  from  the  Dolphin  and  we 
filled  our  canteens.  None  of  the  men  were  par- 
ticularly jubilant.  They  did  not  altogether  appre- 
ciate their  victory.  They  were  occupied  in  being 
glad  that  the  fight  was  over.  I  discovered  to  my 
amazement  that  we  were  on  the  summit  of  a  hill 
so  high  that  our  released  eyes  seemed  to  sweep 
over  half  the  world.  The  vast  stretch  of  sea 
shimmering  like  fragile  blue  silk  in  the  breeze,  lost 
itself  ultimately  in  an  indefinite  pink  haze,  while 
in  the  other  direction,  ridge  after  ridge,  ridge  after 
ridge,  rolled  brown  and  arid  into  the  north.  The 
battle  had  been  fought  high  in  the  air — where  the 
rain  clouds  might  have  been.  That  is  why  every- 
body's face  was  the  colour  of  beetroot  and  men  lay 
on  the  ground  and  only  swore  feebly  when  the 
cactus  spurs  sank  into  them. 

Finally  we  started  for  camp.  Leaving  our 
wounded,  our  cactus  pincushions,  and  our  heat- 


WAR   MEMORIES  251 

prostrated  men  on  board  the  Dolphin.  I  did  not 
see  that  the  men  were  elate  or  even  grinning  with 
satisfaction.  They  seemed  only  anxious  to  get  to 
food  and  rest.  And  yet  it  was  plain  that  Elliott 
and  his  men  had  performed  a  service  that  would 
prove  invaluable  to  the  security  and  comfort  of 
the  entire  battalion.  They  had  driven  the  guer- 
illas to  take  a  road  along  which  they  would  have 
to  proceed  for  fifteen  miles  before  they  could  get 
as  much  water  as  would  wet  the  point  of  a  pin. 
And  by  the  destruction  of  a  well  at  the  scene  of 
the  fight,  Elliott  made  an  arid  zone  almost  twenty 
miles  wide  between  the  enemy  and  the  base  camp. 
In  Cuba  this  is  the  best  of  protections.  However, 
a  cup  of  coffee  !  Time  enough  to  think  of  a  bril- 
liant success  after  one  had  had  a  cup  of  coffee. 
The  long  line  plodded  wearily  through  the  dusky 
jungle  which  was  never  again  to  be  alive  with 
ambushes. 

It  was  dark  when  we  stumbled  into  camp,  and 
I  was  sad  with  an  ungovernable  sadness,  because 
I  was  too  tired  to  remember  where  I  had  left  my 
kit.  But  some  of  my  colleagues  were  waiting  on 
the  beach,  and  they  put  me  on  a  despatch-boat  to 
take  my  news  to  a  Jamaica  cable-station.  The 
appearance  of  this  despatch-boat  struck  me  with 
wonder.  It  was  reminiscent  of  something  with 


252  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

which  I  had  been  familiar  in  early  years.  I  looked 
with  dull  surprise  at  three  men  of  the  engine-room 
force,  who  sat  aft  on  some  bags  of  coal  smoking 
their  pipes  and  talking  as  if  there  had  never  been 
any  battles  fought  anywhere.  The  sudden  clang 
of  the  gong  made  me  start  and  listen  eagerly,  as 
if  I  would  be  asking :  "  What  was  that  ?  "  The 
chunking  of  the  screw  affected  me  also,  but  I 
seemed  to  relate  it  to  a  former  and  pleasing  ex- 
perience. One  of  the  correspondents  on  board 
immediately  began  to  tell  me  of  the  chief  engineer, 
who,  he  said,  was  a  comic  old  character.  I  was 
taken  to  see  this  marvel,  which  presented  itself  as 
a  gray-bearded  man  with  an  oil  can,  who  had  the 
cynical,  malicious,  egotistic  eye  of  proclaimed  and 
admired  ignorance.  I  looked  dazedly  at  the  ven- 
erable impostor.  What  had  he  to  do  with  battles 
— the  humming  click  of.  the  locks,  the  odour  of 
burnt  cotton,  the  bullets,  the  firing  ?  My  friend 
told  the  scoundrel  that  I  was  just  returned  from 
the  afternoon's  action.  He  said  :  "  That  so  ?  " 
And  looked  at  me  with  a  smile,  faintly,  faintly 
derisive.  You  see  ?  I  had  just  come  out  of  my 
life's  most  fiery  time,  and  that  old  devil  looked  at 
me  with  that  smile.  What  colossal  conceit.  The 
four-times-damned  doddering  old  head-mechanic 
of  a  derelict  junk  shop.  The  whole  trouble  lay  in 


WAR    MEMORIES  253 

the  fact  that  I  had  not  shouted  out  with  mingled 
awe  and  joy  as  he  stood  there  in  his  wisdom  and 
experience,  with  all  his  ancient  saws  and  home- 
made epigrams  ready  to  fire. 

My  friend  took  me  to  the  cabin.  What  a 
squalid  hole!  My  heart  sank.  The  reward  after 
the  labour  should  have  been  a  great  airy  chamber, 
a  gigantic  four-poster,  iced  melons,  grilled  birds, 
wine,  and  the  delighted  attendance  of  my  friends. 
When  I  had  finished  my  cablegram,  I  retired  to  a 
little  shelf  of  a  berth,  which  reeked  of  oil,  while 
the  blankets  had  soaked  recently  with  sea-water. 
The  vessel  heeled  to  leaward  in  spasmodic  at- 
tempts to  hurl  me  out,  and  I  resisted  with  the  last 
of  my  strength.  The  infamous  pettiness  of  it  all ! 
I  thought  the  night  would  never  end.  "  But  never 
mind,"  I  said  to  myself  at  last,  "  to-morrow  in 
Fort  Antonio  I  shall  have  a  great  bath  and  fine 
raiment,  and  I  shall  dine  grandly  and  there  will  be 
lager  beer  on  ice.  And  there  will  be  attendants 
to  run  when  I  touch  a  bell,  and  I  shall  catch  every 
interested  romantist  in  the  town,  and  spin  him  the 
story  of  the  fight  at  Cusco."  We  reached  Fort 
Antonio  and  I  fled  from  the  cable  office  to  the 
hotel.  I  procured  the  bath  and,  as  I  donned  what- 
ever fine  raiment  I  had  foraged,  I  called  the  boy 
and  pompously  told  him  of  a  dinner — a  real  dinner, 


254  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

with  furbelows  and  complications,  and  yet  with  a 
basis  of  sincerity.  He  looked  at  me  calf-like  for 
a  moment,  and  then  he  went  away.  After  a  long 
interval,  the  manager  himself  appeared  and  asked 
me  some  questions  which  led  me  to  see  that  he 
thought  I  had  attempted  to  undermine  and  dis- 
integrate the  intellect  of  the  boy,  by  the  elocution 
of  Arabic  incantations.  Well,  never  mind.  In 
the  end,  the  manager  of  the  hotel  elicited  from 
me  that  great  cry,  that  cry  which  during  the  war, 
rang  piteously  from  thousands  of  throats,  that 
last  grand  cry  of  anguish  and  despair :  "  Well,  then, 
in  the  name  of  God,  can  I  have  a  cold  bottle  of 
beer?" 

Well,  you  see  to  what  war  brings  men  ?  War 
is  death,  and  a  plague  of  the  lack  of  small  things, 
and  toil.  Nor  did  I  catch  my  sentimentalists  and 
pour  forth  my  tale  to  them,  and  thrill,  appal, 
and  fascinate  them.  However,  they  did  feel  an 
interest  in  me,  for  I  heard  a  lady  at  the  hotel  ask : 
"  Who  is  that  chap  in  the  very  dirty  jack-boots  ?  " 
So  you  see,  that  whereas  you  can  be  very  much 
frightened  upon  going  into  action,  you  can  also 
be  greatly  annoyed  after  you  have  come  out. 

Later,  I  fell  into  the  hands  of  one  of  my  closest 
friends,  and  he  mercilessly  outlined  a  scheme  for 
landing  to  the  west  of  Santiago  and  getting 


WAR   MEMORIES  255 

through  the  Spanish  lines  to  some  place  from  which 
we  could  view  the  Spanish  squadron  lying  in  the 
harbour.  There  was  rumour  that  the  Viscaya  had 
escaped,  he  said,  and  it  would  be  very  nice  to 
make  sure  of  the  truth.  So  we  steamed  to  a 
point  opposite  a  Cuban  camp  which  my  friend 
knew,  and  flung  two  crop-tailed  Jamaica  polo  po- 
nies into  the  sea.  We  followed  in  a  small  boat 
and  were  met  on  the  beach  by  a  small  Cuban  de- 
tachment who  immediately  caught  our  ponies  and 
saddled  them  for  us.  I  suppose  we  felt  rather 
god-like.  We  were  almost  the  first  Americans 
they  had  seen  and  they  looked  at  us  with  eyes  of 
grateful  affection.  I  don't  suppose  many  men 
have  the  experience  of  being  looked  at  with  eyes 
of  grateful  affection.  They  guide  us  to  a  Cuban 
camp  where,  in  a  little  palm-bark  hut,  a  black- 
faced  lieutenant-colonel  was  lolling  in  a  ham- 
mock. I  couldn't  understand  what  was  said,  but 
at  any  rate  he  must  have  ordered  his  half-naked 
orderly  to  make  coffee,  for  it  was  done.  It  was  a 
dark  syrup  in  smoky  tin-cups,  but  it  was  better 
than  the  cold  bottle  of  beer  which  I  did  not  drink 
in  Jamaica. 

The  Cuban  camp  was  an  expeditious  affair  of 
saplings  and  palm-bark  tied  with  creepers.  It 
could  be  burned  to  the  ground  in  fifteen  minutes 


256  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

and  in  ten  reduplicated.  The  soldiers  were  in  ap- 
pearance an  absolutely  good-natured  set  of  half- 
starved  ragamuffins.  Their  breeches  hung  in 
threads  about  their  black  legs  and  their  shirts 
were  as  nothing.  They  looked  like  a  collection 
of  real  tropic  savages  at  whom  some  philanthropist 
had  flung  a  bundle  of  rags  and  some  of  the  rags 
had  stuck  here  and  there.  But  their  condition 
was  now  a  habit.  I  doubt  if  they  knew  they 
were  half-naked.  Anyhow  they  didn't  care.  No 
more  they  should  ;  the  weather  was  warm.  This 
lieutenant-colonel  gave  us  an  escort  of  five  or  six 
men  and  we  went  up  into  the  mountains,  lying 
flat  on  our  Jamaica  ponies  while  they  went  like 
rats  up  and  down  extraordinary  trails.  In  the 
evening  we  reached  the  camp  of  a  major  who 
commanded  the  outposts.  It  was  high,  high  in 
the  hills.  The  stars  were  as  big  as  cocoanuts. 
We  lay  in  borrowed  hammocks  and  watched  the 
firelight  gleam  blood-red  on  the  trees.  I  remem- 
ber an  utterly  naked  negro  squatting,  crimson,  by 
the  fire  and  cleaning  an  iron-pot.  Some  voices 
were  singing  an  Afric  wail  of  forsaken  love  and 
death.  And  at  dawn  we  were  to  try  to  steal 
through  the  Spanish  lines.  I  was  very,  very  sorry. 
In  the  cold  dawn  the  situation  was  the  same, 
but  somehow  courage  seemed  to  be  in  the  break- 


WAR   MEMORIES  257 

ing  day.  I  went  off  with  the  others  quite  cheer- 
fully. We  came  to  where  the  pickets  stood  be- 
hind bulwarks  of  stone  in  frameworks  of  saplings. 
They  were  peering  across  a  narrow  cloud-steeped 
gulch  at  a  dull  fire  marking  a  Spanish  post. 
There  was  some  palaver  and  then,  with  fifteen 
men,  we  descended  the  side  of  this  mountain, 
going  down  into  the  chill  blue-and-grey  clouds. 
We  had  left  our  horses  with  the  Cuban  pickets. 
We  proceeded  stealthily,  for  we  were  already 
within  range  of  the  Spanish  pickets.  At  the 
bottom  of  the  canon  it  was  still  night.  A  brook, 
a  regular  salmon-stream,  brawled  over  the  rocks. 
There  were  grassy  banks  and  most  delightful  trees. 
The  whole  valley  was  a  sylvan  fragrance.  But — 
the  guide  waved  his  arm  and  scowled  warningly, 
and  in  a  moment  we  were  off,  threading  thickets, 
climbing  hills,  crawling  through  fields  on  our 
hands  and  knees,  sometimes  sweeping  like  seven- 
teen phantoms  across  a  Spanish  road.  I  was  in  a 
dream,  but  I  kept  my  eye  on  the  guide  and  halted 
to  listen  when  he  halted  to  listen  and  ambled  on- 
ward when  he  ambled  onward.  Sometimes  he 
turned  and  pantomimed  as  ably  and  fiercely  as  a 
man  being  stung  by  a  thousand  hornets.  Then 
we  knew  that  the  situation  was  extremely  delicate. 

We  were  now  of  course  well  inside  the  Spanish 
18 


258  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

lines  and  we  ascended  a  great  hill  which  over- 
looked the  harbour  of  Santiago.  There,  tranquilly 
at  anchor,  lay  the  Oquendo,  the  Maria  Theresa, 
the  Christobal  Colon,  the  Viscaya,  the  Pluton,  the 
Furor.  The  bay  was  white  in  the  sun  and  the 
great  blacked-hull  armoured  cruisers  were  impres- 
sive in  a  dignity  massive  yet  graceful.  We  did 
not  know  that  they  were  all  doomed  ships,  soon 
to  go  out  to  a  swift  death.  My  friend  drew  maps 
and  things  while  I  devoted  myself  to  complete 
rest,  blinking  lazily  at  the  Spanish  squadron.  We 
did  not  know  that  we  were  the  last  Americans  to 
view  them  alive  and  unhurt  and  at  peace.  Then 
we  retraced  our  way,  at  the  same  noiseless  canter. 
I  did  not  understand  my  condition  until  I  con- 
sidered that  we  were  well  through  the  Spanish 
lines  and  practically  out  of  danger.  Then  I  dis- 
covered that  I  was  a  dead  man.  The  nervous 
force  having  evaporated  I  was  a  mere  corpse. 
My  limbs  were  of  dough  and  my  spinal  cord 
burned  within  me  as  if  it  were  red-hot  wire.  But 
just  at  this  time  we  were  discovered  by  a  Spanish 
patrol,  and  I  ascertained  that  I  was  not  dead  at  all. 
We  ultimately  reached  the  foot  of  the  mother- 
mountain  on  whose  shoulders  were  the  Cuban 
pickets,  and  here  I  was  so  sure  of  safety  that  I 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  die  again.  I 


WAR   MEMORIES  259 

think  I  passed  into  eleven  distinct  stupors  during 
the  ascent  of  that  mountain  while  the  escort  stood 
leaning  on  their  Remingtons.  We  had  done 
twenty-five  miles  at  a  sort  of  a  man-gallop,  never 
once  using  a  beaten  track,  but  always  going  pro- 
miscuously through  the  jungle  and  over  the  rocks. 
And  many  of  the  miles  stood  straight  on  end  so 
that  it  was  as  hard  to  come  down  as  it  was  to  go 
up.  But  during  my  stupors,  the  escort  stood,  mind 
you,  and  chatted  in  low  voices.  For  all  the  signs 
they  showed,  we  might  have  been  starting.  And 
they  had  had  nothing  to  eat  but  mangoes  for 
over  eight  days.  Previous  to  the  eight  days  they 
had  been  living  on  mangoes  and  the  carcase  of  a 
small  lean  pony.  They  were,  in  fact,  of  the  stuff 
of  Fenimore  Cooper's  Indians,  only  they  made  no 
preposterous  orations.  At  the  major's  camp,  my 
friend  and  I  agreed  that  if  our  worthy  escort 
would  send  down  a  representative  with  us  to  the 
coast,  we  would  send  back  to  them  whatever  we 
could  spare  from  the  stores  of  our  despatch-boat. 
With  one  voice  the  escort  answered  that  they 
themselves  would  go  the  additional  four  leagues, 
as  in  these  starving  times  they  did  not  care  to 
trust  a  representative,  thank  you.  "  They  can't 
do  it ;  they'll  peg  out ;  there  must  be  a  limit,"  I 
said.  "  No,"  answered  my  friend.  "  They're  all 


260  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

right ;  they'd  run  three  times  around  the  whole 
island  for  a  mouthful  of  beer."  So  we  saddled 
up  and  put  off  with  our  fifteen  Cuban  infantrymen 
wagging  along  tirelessly  behind  us.  Sometimes, 
at  the  foot  of  a  precipitous  hill,  a  man  asked  per- 
mission to  cling  to  my  horse's  tail,  and  then  the 
Jamaica  pony  would  snake  him  to  the  summit  so 
swiftly  that  only  his  toes  seemed  to  touch  the 
rocks.  And  for  this  assistance  the  man  was  grate- 
ful. When  we  crowned  the  last  great  ridge  we 
saw  our  squadron  to  the  eastward  spread  in  its 
patient  semicircular  about  the  mouth  of  the  har- 
bour. But  as  we  wound  towards  the  beach  we  saw 
a  more  dramatic  thing — our  own  despatch-boat 
leaving  the  rendezvous  and  putting  off  to  sea. 
Evidently  we  were  late.  Behind  me  were  fifteen 
stomachs,  empty.  It  was  a  frightful  situation. 
My  friend  and  I  charged  for  the  beach  and  those 
fifteen  fools  began  to  run. 

It  was  no  use.  The  despatch-boat  went  gaily 
away  trailing  black  smoke  behind  her.  We 
turned  in  distress  wondering  what  we  could  say 
to  that  abused  escort.  If  they  massacred  us,  I 
felt  that  it  would  be  merely  a  virtuous  reply  to 
fate  and  they  should  in  no  ways  be  blamed. 
There  are  some  things  which  a  man's  feelings  will 
not  allow  him  to  endure  after  a  diet  of  mangoes 


WAR   MEMORIES  261 

and  pony.  However,  we  perceived  to  our  amaze- 
ment that  they  were  not  indignant  at  all.  They 
simply  smiled  and  made  a  gesture  which  expressed 
an  habitual  pessimism.  It  was  a  philosophy 
which  denied  the  existence  of  everything  but 
mangoes  and  pony.  It  was  the  Americans  who 
refused  to  be  comforted.  I  made  a  deep  vow 
with  myself  that  I  would  come  as  soon  as  possible 
and  play  a  regular  Santa  Claus  to  that  splendid 
escort.  But — we  put  to  sea  in  a  dug-out  with 
two  black  boys.  The  escort  waved  us  a  hearty 
good-bye  from  the  shore  and  I  never  saw  them 
again.  I  hope  they  are  all  on  the  police-force  in 
the  new  Santiago. 

In  time  we  were  rescued  from  the  dug-out  by 
our  despatch-boat,  and  we  relieved  our  feelings  by 
over-rewarding  the  two  black  boys.  In  fact  they 
reaped  a  harvest  because  of  our  emotion  over  our 
failure  to  fill  the  gallant  stomachs  of  the  escort. 
They  were  two  rascals.  We  steamed  to  the  flag- 
ship and  were  given  permission  to  board  her. 
Admiral  Sampson  is  to  me  the  most  interesting 
personality  of  the  war.  I  would  not  know  how 
to  sketch  him  for  you  even  if  I  could  pretend  to 
sufficient  material.  Anyhow,  imagine,  first  of  all, 
a  marble  block  of  impassivity  out  of  which  is 
carved  the  figure  of  an  old  man.  Endow  this 


262  WOUNDS   IN    THE    RAIN 

with  life,  and  you've  just  begun.  Then  you 
must  discard  all  your  pictures  of  bluff,  red-faced 
old  gentlemen  who  roar  against  the  gale,  and  un- 
derstand that  the  quiet  old  man  is  a  sailor  and  an 
admiral.  This  will  be  difficult ;  if  I  told  you  he 
was  anything  else  it  would  be  easy.  He  resembles 
other  types  ;  it  is  his  distinction  not  to  resemble 
the  preconceived  type  of  his  standing.  When  first 
I  met  him  I  was  impressed  that  he  was  immensely 
bored  by  the  war  and  with  the  command  of  the 
North  Atlantic  Squadron.  I  perceived  a  manner 
where  I  thought  I  perceived  a  mood,  a  point  of 
view.  Later,  he  seemed  so  indifferent  to  small 
things  which  bore  upon  large  things  that  I  bowed 
to  his  apathy  as  a  thing  unprecedented,  marvel- 
lous. Still  I  mistook  a  manner  for  a  mood.  Still 
I  could  not  understand  that  this  was  the  way  of 
the  man.  I  am  not  to  blame,  for  my  communica- 
tion was  slight  and  depended  upon  sufferance — 
upon,  in  fact,  the  traditional  courtesy  of  the  navy. 
But  finally  I  saw  that  it  was  all  manner,  that  hid- 
den in  his  indifferent,  even  apathetic,  manner,  there 
was  the  alert,  sure,  fine  mind  of  the  best  sea-cap- 
tain that  America  has  produced  since — since  Far- 
ragut  ?  I  don't  know.  I  think — since  Hull. 

Men   follow  heartily  when  they  are  well  led. 
They  balk  at  trifles  when  a  blockhead  cries  go  on. 


WAR   MEMORIES  263 

For  my  part,  an  impressive  thing  of  the  war  is- 
the  absolute  devotion  to  Admiral  Sampson's  per- 
son— no,  to  his  judgment  and  wisdom — which  was 
paid  by  his  ship-commanders — Evans  of  the  Iowa, 
Taylor  of  the  Oregon,  Higginson  of  the  Massachu- 
setts, Phillips  of  the  Texas,  and  all  the  other 
captains — barring  one.  Once,  'afterward,  they 
called  upon  him  to  avenge  himself  upon  a  rival — 
they  were  there  and  they  would  have  to  say — but 
he  said  no-o-o,  he  guessed  it — wouldn't  do — any 
— g-o-oo-o-d — to  the — service. 

Men  feared  him,  but  he  never  made  threats  ; 
men  tumbled  heels  over  head  to  obey  him,  but  he 
never  gave  a  sharp  order  ;  men  loved  him,  but  he 
said  no  word,  kindly  or  unkindly ;  men  cheered 
for  him  and  he  said  :  "  Who  are  they  yelling  for  ?  " 
Men  behaved  badly  to  him  and  he  said  nothing. 
Men  thought  of  glory  and  he  considered  the 
management  of  ships.  All  without  a  sound.  A 
noiseless  campaign — on  his  part.  No  bunting,  no 
arches,  no  fireworks ;  nothing  but  the  perfect 
management  of  a  big  fleet.  That  is  a  record  for 
you.  No  trumpets,  no  cheers  of  the  populace. 
Just  plain,  pure,  unsauced  accomplishment.  But 
ultimately  he  will  reap  his  reward  in — in  what  ?  In 
text-books  on  sea-campaigns.  No  more.  The 
people  choose  their  own  and  they  choose  the  kind 


264  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

they  like.  Who  has  a  better  right  ?  Anyhow  he 
is  a  great  man.  And  when  you  are  once  started 
you  can  continue  to  be  a  great  man  without  the 
help  of  bouquets  and  banquets.  He  don't  need 
them — bless  your  heart. 

The  flag-ship's  battle-hatches  were  down,  and 
between  decks  it  was  insufferable  despite  the  elec- 
tric fans.  I  made  my  way  somewhat  forwards, 
past  the  smart  orderly,  past  the  companion,  on  to 
the  den  of  the  junior  mess.  Even  there  they 
were  playing  cards  in  somebody's  cabin.  "  Hello, 
old  man.  Been  ashore?  How'd  it  look?  It's 
your  deal,  Chick."  There  was  nothing  but 
steamy  wet  heat  and  the  decent  suppression  of 
the  consequent  ill-tempers.  The  junior  officers* 
quarters  were  no  more  comfortable  than  the  ad- 
miral's cabin.  I  had  expected  it  to  be  so  because 
of  my  remembrance  of  their  gay  spirits.  But 
they  were  not  gay.  They  were  sweltering. 
Hello,  old  man,  had  I  been  ashore  ?  I  fled  to 
the  deck,  where  other  officers  not  on  duty  were 
smoking  quiet  cigars.  The  hospitality  of  the 
officers  of  the  flag-ship  is  another  charming  mem- 
ory of  the  war. 

I  rolled  into  my  berth  on  the  despatch-boat  that 
night  feeling  a  perfect  wonder  of  the  day.  Was 
the  figure  that  leaned  over  the  card-game  on  the 


WAR   MEMORIES  26$ 

flag-ship,  the  figure  with  a  whisky  and  soda  in  its 
hand  and  a  cigar  in  its  teeth — was  it  identical  with 
the  figure  scrambling,  afraid  of  its  life,  through 
Cuban  jungle?  Was  it  the  figure  of  the  situation 
of  the  fifteen  pathetic  hungry  men  ?  It  was  the 
same  and  it  went  to  sleep,  hard  sleep.  I  don't 
know  where  we  voyaged.  I  think  it  was  Jamaica. 
But,  at  any  rate,  upon  the  morning  of  our  return  to 
the  Cuban  coast,  we  found  the  sea  alive  with  trans- 
ports— United  States  transports  from  Tampa, 
containing  the  Fifth  Army  Corps  under  Major- 
General  Shafter.  The  rigging  and  the  decks  of 
these  ships  were  black  with  men  and  everybody 
wanted  to  land  first.  I  landed,  ultimately,  and 
immediately  began  to  look  for  an  acquaintance. 
The  boats  were  banged  by  the  waves  against  a 
little  flimsy  dock.  I  fell  ashore  somehow,  but  I 
did  not  at  once  find  an  acquaintance.  I  talked  to 
a  private  in  the  2d  Massachusetts  Volunteers 
who  told  me  that  he  was  going  to  write  war  cor- 
respondence for  a  Boston  newspaper.  This  state- 
ment did  not  surprise  me. 

There  was  a  straggly  village,  but  I  followed  the 
troops  who  at  this  time  seemed  to  be  moving  out 
by  companies.  I  found  three  other  correspond- 
ents and  it  was  luncheon  time.  Somebody  had 
two  bottles  of  Bass,  but  it  was  so  warm  that  it 


266  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

squirted  out  in  foam.  There  was  no  firing  ;  no 
noise  of  any  kind.  An  old  shed  was  full  of  sol- 
diers loafing  pleasantly  in  the  shade.  It  was  a 
hot,  dusty,  sleepy  afternoon  ;  bees  hummed.  We 
saw  Major-General  Lawton  standing  with  his  staff 
under  a  tree.  He  was  smiling  as  if  he  would  say  : 
"  Well,  this  will  be  better  than  chasing  Apaches." 
His  division  had  the  advance,  and  so  he  had  the 
right  to  be  happy.  A  tall  man  with  a  grey  mous- 
tache, light  but  very  strong,  an  ideal  cavalryman. 
He  appealed  to  one  all  the  more  because  of  the 
vague  rumours  that  his  superiors — some  of  them 
— were  going  to  take  mighty  good  care  that  he 
shouldn't  get  much  to  do.  It  was  rather  sickening 
to  hear  such  talk,  but  later  we  knew  that  most  of 
it  must  have  been  mere  lies. 

Down  by  the  landing-place  a  band  of  corre- 
spondents were  making  a  sort  of  permanent  camp. 
They  worked  like  Trojans,  carrying  wall-tents, 
cots,  and  boxes  of  provisions.  They  asked  me  to 
join  them,  but  I  looked  shrewdly  at  the  sweat  on 
their  faces  and  backed  away.  The  next  day  the 
army  left  this  permanent  camp  eight  miles  to  the 
rear.  The  day  became  tedious.  I  was  glad  when 
evening  came.  I  sat  by  a  camp-fire  and  listened 
to  a  soldier  of  the  8th  Infantry  who  told  me  that 
he  was  the  first  enlisted  man  to  land.  I  lay  pre- 


WAR    MEMORIES  267 

tending  to  appreciate  him,  but  in  fact  I  considered 
him  a  great  shameless  liar.  Less  than  a  month 
ago,  I  learned  that  every  word  he  said  was  gospel 
truth.  I  was  much  surprised.  We  went  for 
breakfast  to  the  camp  of  the  2Oth  Infantry,  where 
Captain  Greene  and  his  subaltern,  Exton,  gave  us 
tomatoes  stewed  with  hard  bread  and  coffee. 
Later,  I  discovered  Greene  and  Exton  down  at  the 
beach  good-naturedly  dodging  the  waves  which 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  prevent  them  from  wash- 
ing the  breakfast  dishes.  I  felt  tremendously 
ashamed  because  my  cup  and  my  plate  were  there, 

you    know,    and Fate    provides   some  men 

greased  opportunities  for  making  dizzy  jackasses 
of  themselves  and  I  fell  a  victim  to  my  flurry  on 
this  occasion.  I  was  a  blockhead.  I  walked  away 
blushing.  What  ?  The  battles  ?  Yes,  I  saw 
something  of  all  of  them.  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  the  next  time  I  met  Greene  and  Exton  I'd 
say  :  "  Look  here  ;  why  didn't  you  tell  me  you 
had  to  wash  your  own  dishes  that  morning  so  that 
I  could  have  helped  ?  I  felt  beastly  when  I  saw 
you  scrubbing  there.  And  me  walking  around 
idly."  But  I  never  saw  Captain  Greene  again. 
I  think  he  is  in  the  Philippines  now  fighting  the 
Tagals.  The  next  time  I  saw  Exton — what  ? 
Yes,  La  Guasimas.  That  was  the  "  rough  rider 


268  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

fight."  However,  the  next  time  I  saw  Exton  I — 
what  do  you  think  ?  I  forgot  to  speak  about  it. 
But  if  ever  I  meet  Greene  or  Exton  again — even 
if  it  should  be  twenty  years — I  am  going  to  say, 

first  thing  :  "  Why "  What?  Yes.  Roosevelt's 

regiment  and  the  First  and  Tenth  Regular  Cav- 
alry. I'll  say,  first  thing:  "  Say,  why  didn't  you 
tell  me  you  had  to  wash  your  own  dishes,  that 
morning,  so  that  I  could  have  helped  ? "  My 
stupidity  will  be  on  my  conscience  until  I  die,  if, 
before  that,  I  do  not  meet  either  Greene  or  Exton. 
Oh,  yes,  you  are  howling  for  blood,  but  I  tell  you  it 
is  more  emphatic  that  I  lost  my  tooth-brush.  Did 
I  tell  you  that  ?  Well,  I  lost  it,  you  see,  and  I 
thought  of  it  for  ten  hours  at  a  stretch.  Oh,  yes 
— he?  He  was  shot  through  the  heart.  But, 
look  here,  I  contend  that  the  French  cable  com- 
pany buncoed  us  throughout  the  war.  What  ? 
Him  ?  My  tooth-brush  I  never  found,  but  he  died 
of  his  wound  in  time.  Most  of  the  regular  soldiers 
carried  their  tooth-brushes  stuck  in  the  bands  of 
their  hats.  It  made  a  quaint  military  decoration. 
I  have  had  a  line  of  a  thousand  men  pass  me  in 
the  jungle  and  not  a  hat  lacking  the  simple 
emblem. 

The  first    of  July?     All    right.     My    Jamaica 
polo-pony  was  not  present.     He  was  still  in  the 


WAR    MEMORIES  269 

hills  to  the  westward  of  Santiago,  but  the  Cubans 
had  promised  to  fetch  him  to  me.  But  my  kit 
was  easy  to  carry.  It  had  nothing  superfluous  in 
it  but  a  pair  of  spurs  which  made  me  indignant 
every  time  I  looked  at  them.  Oh,  but  I  must  tell 
you  about  a  man  I  met  directly  after  the  La 
Guasimas  fight.  Edward  Marshall,  a  correspond- 
ent whom  I  had  known  with  a  degree  of  intimacy 
for  seven  years,  was  terribly  hit  in  that  fight  and 
asked  me  if  I  would  not  go  to  Siboney — the  base 
— and  convey  the  news  to  his  colleagues  of  the 
New  York  Journal  and  round  up  some  assistance. 
I  went  to  Siboney,  and  there  was  not  a  Journal 
man  to  be  seen,  although  usually  you  judged  from 
appearances  that  the  Journal  staff  was  about  as 
large  as  the  army.  Presently  I  met  two  corre- 
spondents, strangers  to  me,  but  I  questioned 
them,  saying  that  Marshall  was  badly  shot  and 
wished  for  such  succour  as  Journal  men  could 
bring  from  their  despatch-boat.  And  one  of 
these  correspondents  replied.  He  is  the  man  I 
wanted  to  describe.  I  love  him  as  a  brother.  He 
said:  "  Marshall  ?  Marshall?  Why,  Marshall 
isn't  in  Cuba  at  all.  He  left  for  New  York  just  be- 
fore the  expedition  sailed  from  Tampa."  I  said  : 
"  Beg  pardon,  but  I  remarked  that  Marshall  was 
shot  in  the  fight  this  morning,  and  have  you  seen 


270  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

any  Journal  people  ?  "  After  a  pause,  he  said  : 
"  I  am  sure  Marshall  is  not  down  here  at  all.  He's 
in  New  York."  I  said  :  "  Pardon  me,  but  I  re- 
marked that  Marshall  was  shot  in  the  fight  this 
morning,  and  have  you  seen  any  Journal  people  ?  " 
He  said:  "  No ;  now  look  here,  you  must  have 
gotten  two  chaps  mixed  somehow.  Marshall  isn't 
in  Cuba  at  all.  How  could  he  be  shot  ?  "  I  said  : 
"  Pardon  me,  but  I  remarked  that  Marshall  was 
shot  in  the  fight  this  morning,  and  have  you  seen 
any  Journal  people?"  He  said:  "  But  it  can't 
really  be  Marshall,  you  know,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  he's  not  down  here."  I  clasped  my 
hands  to  my  temples,  gave  one  piercing  cry  to 
heaven  and  fled  from  his  presence.  I  couldn't 
go  on  with  him.  He  excelled  me  at  all  points. 
I  have  faced  death  by  bullets,  fire,  water,  and  dis- 
ease, but  to  die  thus — to  wilfully  batter  myself 
against  the  ironclad  opinion  of  this  mummy — no, 
no,  not  that.  In  the  meantime,  it  was  admitted 
that  a  correspondent  was  shot,  be  his  name  Mar- 
shall, Bismarck,  or  Louis  XIV.  Now,  supposing 
the  name  of  this  wounded  correspondent  had 
been  Bishop  Potter  ?  Or  Jane  Austen  ?  Or  Bern- 
hardt  ?  Or  Henri  Georges  Stephane  Adolphe 
Opper  de  Blowitz  ?  What  effect — never  mind. 
We  will  proceed  to  July  1st.  On  that  morning 


WAR   MEMORIES  271 

I  marched  with  my  kit — having  everything  essen- 
tial save  a  tooth-brush — the  entire  army  put 
me  to  shame,  since  there  must  have  been  at 
least  fifteen  thousand  tooth-brushes  in  the  in- 
vading force — I  marched  with  my  kit  on  the  road 
to  Santiago.  It  was  a  fine  morning  and  every- 
body— the  doomed  and  the  immunes — how  could 
we  tell  one  from  the  other — everybody  was  in 
the  highest  spirits.  We  were  enveloped  in  forest, 
but  we  could  hear,  from  ahead,  everybody  pepper- 
ing away  at  everybody.  It  was  like  the  roll  of 
many  drums.  This  was  Lawton  over  at  El  Caney. 
I  reflected  with  complacency  that  Lawton's  divi- 
sion did  not  concern  me  in  a  professional  way. 
That  was  the  affair  of  another  man.  My  business 
was  with  Kent's  division  and  Wheeler's  division. 
We  came  to  El  Poso — a  hill  at  nice  artillery  range 
from  the  Spanish  defences.  Here  Grimes's  bat- 
tery was  shooting  a  duel  with  one  of  the  enemy's 
batteries.  Scovel  had  established  a  little  camp  in 
the  rear  of  the  guns  and  a  servant  had  made  cof- 
fee. I  invited  Whigham  to  have  coffee,  and  the 
servant  added  some  hard  biscuit  and  tinned 
tongue.  I  noted  that  Whigham  was  staring 
fixedly  over  my  shoulder,  and  that  he  waved  away 
the  tinned  tongue  with  some  bitterness.  It  was 
a  horse,  a  dead  horse.  Then  a  mule,  which  had 


272  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

been  shot  through  the  nose,  wandered  up  and 
looked  at  Whigham.  We  ran  away. 

On  top  of  the  hill  one  had  a  fine  view  of 
the  Spanish  lines.  We  stared  across  almost 
a  mile  of  jungle  to  ash-coloured  trenches  on 
the  military  crest  of  the  ridge.  A  goodly 
distance  back  of  this  position  were  white  build- 
ings, all  flying  great  red-cross  flags.  The  jungle 
beneath  us  rattled  with  firing  and  the  Spanish 
trenches  crackled  out  regular  volleys,  but  all 
this1  time  there  was  nothing  to  indicate  a  tan- 
gible enemy.  In  truth,  there  was  a  man  in  a 
Panama  hat  strolling  to  and  fro  behind  one  of  the 
Spanish  trenches,  gesticulating  at  times  with  a 
walking  stick.  A  man  in  a  Panama  hat,  walking 
with  a  stick !  That  was  the  strangest  sight  of 
my  life — that  symbol,  that  quaint  figure  of  Mars. 
The  battle,  the  thunderous  row,  was  his  posses- 
sion. He  was  the  master.  He  mystified  us  all 
with  his  infernal  Panama  hat  and  his  wretched 
walking-stick.  From  near  his  feet  came  volleys 
and  from  near  his  side  came  roaring  shells,  but 
he  stood  there  alone,  visible,  the  one  tangible 
thing.  He  was  a  Colossus,  and  he  was  half  as 
high  as  a  pin,  this  being.  Always  somebody 
would  be  saying :  "  Who  can  that  fellow  be  ?  " 

Later,  the  American  guns  shelled  the  trenches 


WAR  MEMORIES  273 

and  a  blockhouse  near  them,  and  Mars  had  van- 
ished. It  could  not  have  been  death.  One  can- 
not kill  Mars.  But  there  was  one  other  figure, 
which  arose  to  symbolic  dignity.  The  balloon  of 
our  signal  corps  had  swung  over  the  tops  of  the 
jungle's  trees  toward  the  Spanish  trenches.  Where- 
at the  balloon  and  the  man  in  the  Panama  hat  and 
with  a  walking  stick — whereat  these  two  waged 
tremendous  battle. 

Suddenly  the  conflict  became  a  human  thing. 
A  little  group  of  blue  figures  appeared  on  the 
green  of  the  terrible  hillside.  It  was  some  of  our 
infantry.  The  attach^  of  a  great  empire  was  at 
my  shoulder,  and  he  turned  to  me  and  spoke  with 
incredulity  and  scorn.  "  Why,  they're  trying  to 
take  the  position,"  he  cried,  and  I  admitted  meek- 
ly that  I  thought  they  were.  "  But  they  can't  do 
it,  you  know,"  he  protested  vehemently.  "  It's 
impossible."  And — good  fellow  that  he  was — he 
began  to  grieve  and  wail  over  a  useless  sacrifice  of 
gallant  men.  "  It's  plucky,  you  know  !  By 
Gawd,  it's  plucky !  But  they  cant  do  it!  "  He 
was  profoundly  moved ;  his  voice  was  quite 
broken.  "  It  will  simply  be  a  hell  of  a  slaughter 
with  no  good  coming  out  of  it." 

The  trail  was  already  crowded  with  stretcher- 
bearers  and  with  wounded  men  who  could  walk. 
18 


274  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

One  had  to  stem  a  tide  of  mute  agony.  But  I 
don't  know  that  it  was  mute  agony.  I  only 
know  that  it  was  mute.  It  was  something  in  which 
the  silence  or,  more  likely,  the  reticence  was  an 
appalling  and  inexplicable  fact.  One's  senses 
seemed  to  demand  that  these  men  should  cry  out. 
But  you  could  really  find  wounded  men  who  ex- 
hibited all  the  signs  of  a  pleased  and  contented 
mood.  When  thinking  of  it  now  it  seems  strange 
beyond  words.  But  at  the  time — I  don't  know — 
it  did  not  attract  one's  wonder.  A  man  with  a 
hole  in  his  arm  or  his  shoulder,  or  even  in  the  leg 
below  the  knee,  was  often  whimsical,  comic. 
"  Well,  this  ain't  exactly  what  I  enlisted  for,  boys. 
If  I'd  been  told  about  this  in  Tampa,  Pd  have  re- 
signed from  th'  army.  Oh,  yes,  you  can  get  the 
same  thing  if  you  keep  on  going.  But  I  think 
the  Spaniards  may  run  out  of  ammunition  in  the 
course  of  a  week  or  ten  days."  Then  suddenly 
one  would  be  confronted  by  the  awful  majesty  of 
a  man  shot  in  the  face.  Particularly  I  remember 
one.  He  had  a  great  dragoon  moustache,  and 
the  blood  streamed  down  his  face  to  meet  this 
moustache  even  as  a  torrent  goes  to  meet  the 
jammed  log,  and  then  swarmed  out  to  the  tips 
and  fell  in  big  slow  drops.  He  looked  steadily 
into  my  eyes ;  I  was  ashamed  to  return  his 


WAR    MEMORIES  275 

glance.     You  understand?     It  is  very  curious — 
all  that. 

The  two  lines  of  battle  were  royally  whacking 
away  at  each  other,  and  there  was  no  rest  or  peace 
in  all  that  region.  The  modern  bullet  is  a  far- 
flying  bird.  It  rakes  the  air  with  its  hot  spitting 
song  at  distances  which,  as  a  usual  thing,  place  the 
whole  landscape  in  the  danger-zone.  There  was 
no  direction  from  which  they  did  not  come.  A 
chart  of  their  courses  over  one's  head  would  have 
resembled  a  spider's  web.  My  friend  Jimmie,  the 
photographer,  mounted  to  the  firing  line  with  me 
and  we  gallivanted  as  much  as  we  dared.  The 
"  sense  of  the  meeting  "  was  curious.  Most  of 
the  men  seemed  to  have  no  idea  of  a  grand  histo- 
ric performance,  but  they  were  grimly  satisfied 
with  themselves.  "  Well,  begawd,  we  done  it." 
Then  they  wanted  to  know  about  other  parts  of 
the  line.  "How  are  things  looking,  old  man? 
Everything  all  right  ?  "  "  Yes,  everything  is  all 
right  if  you  can  hold  this  ridge. v  "  Aw,  hell," 
said  the  men,  "  we'll  hold  the  ridge.  Don't  you 
worry  about  that,  son." 

It   was  Jimmie's  first  action,  and,  as  we  cau 
tiously  were  making  our  way  to  the  right  of  our 
lines,  the  crash  of  the  Spanish  fire  became  up- 
roarious, and  the  air  simply  whistled.     I  heard  a 


276  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

quavering  voice  near  my  shoulder,  and,  turning,  I 
beheld  Jimmie — Jimmie — with  a  face  bloodless, 
white  as  paper.  He  looked  at  me  with  eyes  opened 
extremely  wide.  "  Say,"  he  said,  "  this  is  pretty 
hot,  ain't  it  ? ''  I  was  delighted.  I  knew  exactly 
what  he  meant.  He  wanted  to  have  the  situation 
defined.  If  I  had  told  him  that  this  was  the  oc- 
casion of  some  mere  idle  desultory  firing  and 
recommended  that  he  wait  until  the  real  battle  be- 
gan, I  think  he  would  have  gone  in  a  bee-line  for 
the  rear.  But  I  told  him  the  truth.  "Yes, 
Jimmie,"  I  replied  earnestly,  "You  can  take  it 
from  me  that  this  is  patent,  double-extra-what- 
for."  And  immediately  he  nodded.  "  All  right." 
If  this  was  a  big  action,  then  he  was  willing  to  pay 
in  his  fright  as  a;-  rational  price  for  the  privilege  of 
being  present.  But  if  this  was  only  a  penny  af- 
fray, he  considered  the  price  exorbitant,  and  he 
would  go  away.  He  accepted  my  assurance  with 
simple  faith,  and  deported  himself  with  kindly 
dignity  as  one  moving  amid  great  things.  His 
face  was  still  as  pale  as  paper,  but  that  counted 
for  nothing.  The  main  point  was  his  perfect  will- 
ingness to  be  frightened  for  reasons.  I  wonder 
where  is  Jimmie  ?  I  lent  him  the  Jamaica  polo- 
pony  one  day  and  it  ran  away  with  him  and  flung 
him  off  in  the  middle  of  a  ford.  He  appeared  to 


WAR   MEMORIES  277 

me  afterward  and  made  bitter  speech  concerning 
this  horse  which  I  had  assured  him  was  a  gentle  and 
pious  animal.  Then  I  never  saw  Jimmie  again. 

Then  came  the  night  of  the  first  of  July.  A 
group  of  correspondents  limped  back  to  El  Poso. 
It  had  been  a  day  so  long  that  the  morning 
seemed  as  remote  as  a  morning  in  the  previous 
year.  But  I  have  forgotten  to  tell  you  about 
Reuben  McNab.  Many  years  ago,  I  went  to 
school  at  a  place  called  Claverack,  in  New  York 
State,  where  there  was  a  semi-military  institution. 
Contemporaneous  with  me,  as  a  student,  was 
Reuben  McNab,  a  long,  lank  boy,  freckled,  sandy- 
haired — an  extraordinary  boy  in  no  way,  and  yet, 
I  wager,  a  boy  clearly  marked  in  every  recollec- 
tion. Perhaps  there  is  a  good  deal  in  that  name. 
Reuben  McNab.  You  can't  fling  that  name  care- 
lessly over  your  shoulder  and  lose  it.  It  follows 
you  like  the  haunting  memory  of  a  sin.  At  any 
rate,  Reuben  McNab  was  identified  intimately  in 
my  thought  with  the  sunny  irresponsible  days  at 
Claverack,  when  all  the  earth  was  a  green  field  and 
all  the  sky  was  a  rainless  blue.  Then  I  looked 
down  into  a  miserable  huddle  at  Bloody  Bend,  a 
huddle  of  hurt  men,  dying  men,  dead  men.  And 
there  I  saw  Reuben  McNab,  a  corporal  inthe/ist 
New  York  Volunteers,  and  with  a  hole  through 


278  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

his  lung.  Also,  several  holes  through  his  clothing. 
"  Well,  they  got  me,"  he  said  in  greeting.  Usu- 
ally they  said  that.  There  were  no  long  speeches. 
"Well,  they  got  me."  That  was  sufficient.  The 
duty  of  the  upright,  unhurt,  man  is  then  difficult. 
I  doubt  if  many  of  us  learned  how  to  speak  to  our 
own  wounded.  In  the  first  place,  one  had  to  play 
that  the  wound  was  nothing ;  oh,  a  mere  nothing  ;  a 
casual  interference  with  movement,  perhaps,  but 
nothing  more  ;  oh,  really  nothing  more.  In  the 
second  place,  one  had  to  show  a  comrade's  appre- 
ciation of  this  sad  plight.  As  a  result  I  think 
most  of  us  bungled  and  stammered  in  the  presence 
of  our  wounded  friends.  That's  curious,  eh? 
"Well,  they  got  me,"  said  Reuben  McNab.  I 
had  looked  upon  five  hundred  wounded  men  with 
stolidity,  or  with  a  conscious  indifference  which 
filled  me  with  amazement.  But  the  apparition  of 
Reuben  McNab,  the  schoolmate,  lying  there  in 
the  mud,  with  a  hole  through  his  lung,  awed  me 
into  stutterings,  set  me  trembling  with  a  sense  of 
terrible  intimacy  with  this  war  which  theretofore 
I  could  have  believed  was  a  dream — almost. 
Twenty  shot  men  rolled  their  eyes  and  looked  at 
me.  Only  one  man  paid  no  heed.  He  was  dying; 
he  had  no  time.  The  bullets  hummed  low  over 
them  all.  Death,  having  already  struck,  still  in- 


WAR   MEMORIES  279 

sisted  upon  raising  a  venomous  crest.  "  If  you're 
goin'  by  the  hospital,  step  in  and  see  me,"  said 
Reuben  McNab.  That  was  all. 

At  the  correspondents'  camp,  at  El  Poso,  there 
was  hot  coffee.  It  was  very  good.  I  have  a  vague 
sense  of  being  very  selfish  over  my  blanket  and 
rubber  coat.  I  have  a  vague  sense  of  spasmodic 
firing  during  my  sleep  ;  it  rained,  and  then  I  awoke 
to  hear  that  steady  drumming  of  an  infantry  fire 
— something  which  was  never  to  cease,  it  seemed. 
They  were  at  it  again.  The  trail  from  El  Poso  to 
the  positions  along  San  Juan  ridge  had  become 
an  exciting  thoroughfare.  Shots  from  large-bore 
rifles  dropped  in  from  almost  every  side.  At  this 
time  the  safest  place  was  the  extreme  front.  I 
remember  in  particular  the  one  outcry  I  heard. 
A  private  in  the  7ist,  without  his  rifle,  had  gone 
to  a  stream  for  some  water,  and  was  returning, 
being  but  a  little  in  rear  of  me.  Suddenly  I 
heard  this  cry — "  Oh,  my  God,  come  quick  " — and 
I  was  conscious  then  to  having  heard  the  hateful 
zip  of  a  close  shot.  He  lay  on  the  ground,  wrig- 
gling. He  was  hit  in  the  hip.  Two  men  came 
quickly.  Presently  everybody  seemed  to  be  get- 
ting knocked  down.  They  went  over  like  men  of 
wet  felt,  quietly,  calmly,  with  no  more  complaint 
than  so  many  automatons.  It  was  only  that  lad — 


280  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

"  Oh,  my  God,  come  quick."  Otherwise,  men 
seemed  to  consider  that  their  hurts  were  not 
worthy  of  particular  attention.  A  number  of  peo- 
ple got  killed  very  courteously,  tacitly  absolving 
the  rest  of  us  from  any  care  in  the  matter.  A 
man  fell ;  he  turned  blue  ;  his  face  took  on  an  ex- 
pression of  deep  sorrow ;  and  then  his  immediate 
friends  worried  about  him,  if  he  had  friends.  This 
was  July  i.  I  crave  the  permission  to  leap  back 
again  to  that  date. 

On  the  morning  of  July  2,  I  sat  on  San  Juan 
hill  and  watched  Lawton's  division  come  up.  I 
was  absolutely  sheltered,  but  still  where  I  could 
look  into  the  faces  of  men  who  were  trotting  up 
under  fire.  There  wasn't  a  high  heroic  face 
among  them.  They  were  all  men  intent  on  busi- 
ness. That  was  all.  It  may  seem  to  you  that  I 
am  trying  to  make  everything  a  squalor.  That 
would  be  wrong.  I  feel  that  things  were  often 
sublime.  But  they  were  differently  sublime. 
They  were  not  of  our  shallow  and  preposterous 
fictions.  They  stood  out  in  a  simple,  majestic 
commonplace.  It  was  the  behaviour  of  men  on 
the  street.  It  was  the  behaviour  of  men.  In  one 
way,  each  man  was  just  pegging  along  at  the 
heels  of  the  man  before  him,  who  was  pegging 
along  at  the  heels  of  still  another  man,  who  was 


WAR   MEMORIES  281 

pegging  along  at  the  heels  of  still  another  man 
who —  It  was  that  in  the  flat  and  obvious 
way.  In  another  way  it  was  pageantry,  the 
pageantry  of  the  accomplishment  of  naked  duty. 
One  cannot  speak  of  it — the  spectacle  of  the 
common  man  serenely  doing  his  work,  his  ap- 
pointed work.  It  is  the  one  thing  in  the  universe 
which  makes  one  fling  expression  to  the  winds 
and  be  satisfied  to  simply  feel.  Thus  they  moved 
at  San  Juan — the  soldiers  of  the  United  States 
Regular  Army.  One  pays  them  the  tribute  of 
the  toast  of  silence. 

Lying  near  one  of  the  enemy's  trenches  was 
a  red-headed  Spanish  corpse.  I  wonder  how 
many  hundreds  were  cognisant  of  this  red-headed 
Spanish  corpse  ?  It  arose  to  the  dignity  of  a 
landmark.  There  were  many  corpses  but  only 
one  with  a  red  head.  This  red-head.  He  was 
always  there.  Each  time  I  approached  that  part 
of  the  field  I  prayed  that  I  might  find  that  he 
had  been  'buried.  But  he  was  always  there — red- 
headed. His  strong  simple  countenance  was  a 
malignant  sneer  at  the  system  which  was  forever 
killing  the  credulous  peasants  in  a  sort  of  black 
night  of  politics,  where  the  peasants  merely  fol- 
lowed whatever  somebody  had  told  them  was 
lofty  and  good.  But,  nevertheless,  the  red-headed 


282  WOUNDS   IN    THE    RAIN 

Spaniard  was  dead.  He  was  irrevocably  dead. 
And  to  what  purpose  ?  The  honour  of  Spain  ? 
Surely  the  honour  of  Spain  could  have  existed 
without  the  violent  death  of  this  poor  red-headed 
peasant  ?  Ah  well,  he  was  buried  when  the 
heavy  firing  ceased  and  men  had  time  for  such 
small  things  as  funerals.  The  trench  was  turned 
over  on  top  of  him.  It  was  a  fine,  honourable, 
soldierly  fate — to  be  buried  in  a  trench,  the  trench 
of  the  fight  and  the  death.  Sleep  well,  red- 
headed peasant.  You  came  to  another  hemis- 
phere to  fight  because — because  you  were  told  to, 
I  suppose.  Well,  there  you  are,  buried  in  your 
trench  on  San  Juan  hill.  That  is  the  end  of  it, 
your  life  has  been  taken — that  is  a  flat,  frank  fact. 
And  foreigners  buried  you  expeditiously  while 
speaking  a  strange  tongue.  Sleep  well,  red- 
headed mystery. 

On  the  day  before  the  destruction  of  Cervera's 
fleet,  I  steamed  past  our  own  squadron,  doggedly 
lying  in  its  usual  semicircle,  every  nose  pointing 
at  the  mouth  of  the  harbour.  I  went  to  Jamaica, 
and  on  the  placid  evening  of  the  next  day  I  was 
again  steaming  past  our  own  squadron,  doggedly 
lying  in  its  usual  semicircle,  every  nose  pointing 
at  the  mouth  of  the  harbour.  A  megaphone-hail 
from  the  bridge  of  one  of  the  yacht-gunboats 


WAR    MEMORIES  283 

came  casually  over  the  water.  "  Hello!  hear  the 
news?"  "No;  what  was  it?"  "The  Spanish 
fleet  came  out  this  morning."  "  Oh,  of  course, 
it  did."  "  Honest,  I  mean."  "  Yes,  I  know  ; 
well,  where  are  they  now?"  "Sunk."  Was 
there  ever  such  a  preposterous  statement  ?  I  was 
humiliated  that  my  friend,  the  lieutenant  on  the 
yacht-gunboat,  should  have  measured  me  as  one 
likely  to  swallow  this  bad  joke. 

But  it  was  all  true  ;  every  word.  I  glanced  back 
at  our  squadron,  lying  in  its  usual  semicircle,  every 
nose  pointing  at  the  mouth  of  the  harbour.  It 
would  have  been  absurd  to  think  that  anything 
had  happened.  The  squadron  hadn't  changed  a 
button.  There  it  sat  without  even  a  smile  on  the 
face  of  the  tiger.  And  it  had  eaten  four  armoured 
cruisers  and  two  torpedo-boat-destroyers  while 
my  back  was  turned  for  a  moment.  Courteously, 
but  clearly,  we  announced  across  the  waters  that 
until  despatch-boats  came  to  be  manned  from  the 
ranks  of  the  celebrated  horse-marines,  the  lieu- 
tenant's statement  would  probably  remain  unap- 
preciated. He  made  a  gesture,  abandoning  us  to 
our  scepticism.  It  infuriates  an  honourable  and 
serious  man  to  be  taken  for  a  liar  or  a  joker  at  a 
time  when  he  is  supremely  honourable  and  seri- 
ous. However,  when  we  went  ashore,  we  found 


284  WOUNDS   IN    THE    RAIN 

Siboney  ringing  with  the  news.  It  was  true, 
then ;  that  mishandled  collection  of  sick  ships 
had  come  out  and  taken  the  deadly  thrashing 
which  was  rightfully  the  due  of — I  don't  know — 
somebody  in  Spain — or  perhaps  nobody  anywhere. 
One  likes  to  wallop  incapacity,  but  one  has 
mingled  emotions  over  the  incapacity  which  is 
not  so  much  personal  as  it  is  the  development  of 
centuries.  This  kind  of  incapacity  cannot  be 
centralised.  You  cannot  hit  the  head  which  con- 
tains it  all.  This  is  the  idea,  I  imagine,  which 
moved  the  officers  and  men  of  our  fleet.  Almost 
immediately  they  began  to  speak  of  the  Spanish 
Admiral  as  "  poor  old  boy  "  with  a  lucid  sugges- 
tion in  their  tones  that  his  fate  appealed  to  them 
as  being  undue  hard,  undue  cruel.  And  yet  the 
Spanish  guns  hit  nothing.  If  a  man  shoots,  he 
should  hit  something  occasionally,  and  men  say 
that  from  the  time  the  Spanish  ships  broke  clear 
of  the  harbour  entrance  until  they  were  one  by 
one  overpowered,  they  were  each  a  band  of  flame. 
Well,  one  can  only  mumble  out  that  when  a  man 
shoots  he  should  be  required  to  hit  something 
occasionally. 

In  truth,  the  greatest  fact  of  the  whole  cam- 
paign on  land  and  sea  seems  to  be  the  fact  that 
the  Spaniards  could  only  hit  by  chance,  by  a  fluke. 


WAR  MEMORIES  285 

If  he  had  been  an  able  marksman,  no  man  of  our 
two  unsupported  divisions  would  have  set  foot 
on  San  Juan  hill  on  July  I.  They  should  have 
been  blown  to  smithereens.  The  Spaniards  had 
no  immediate  lack  of  ammunition,  for  they  fired 
enough  to  kill  the  population  of  four  big  cities. 
I  admit  neither  Velasquez  nor  Cervantes  into 
this  discussion,  although  they  have  appeared  by 
authority  as  reasons  for  something  which  I  do 
not  clearly  understand.  Well,  anyhow  they 
couldn't  hit  anything.  Velasquez  ?  Yes.  Cer- 
vantes? Yes.  But  the  Spanish  troops  seemed 
only  to  try  to  make  a  very  rapid  fire.  Thus  we 
lost  many  men.  We  lost  them  because  of  the 
simple  fury  of  the  fire  ;  never  because  the  fire 
was  well-directed,  intelligent.  But  the  Americans 
were  called  upon  to  be  whipped  because  of  Cer- 
vantes and  Velasquez.  It  was  impossible. 

Out  on  the  slopes  of  San  Juan  the  dog-tents 
shone  white.  Some  kind  of  negotiations  were 
going  forward,  and  men  sat  on  their  trousers  and 
waited.  It  was  all  rather  a  blur  of  talks  with 
officers,  and  a  craving  for  good  food  and  good 
water.  Once  Leighton  and  I  decided  to  ride  over 
to  El  Caney,  into  which  town  the  civilian  refugees 
from  Santiago  were  pouring.  The  road  from  the 
beleaguered  city  to  the  out-lying  village  was  a 


286  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

spectacle  to  make  one  moan.  There  were  delicate 
gentle  families  on  foot,  the  silly  French  boots  of  the 
girls  twisting  and  turning  in  a  sort  of  absolute  paper 
futility ;  there  were  sons  and  grandsons  carrying 
the  venerable  patriarch  in  his  own  armchair  ;  there 
were  exhausted  mothers  with  babes  who  wailed  ; 
there  were  young  dandies  with  their  toilettes  in 
decay  ;  there  were  puzzled,  guideless  women  who 
didn't  know  what  had  happened.  The  first  sen- 
tence one  heard  was  the  murmurous  "  What  a  damn 
shame."  We  saw  a  godless  young  trooper  of  the 
Second  Cavalry  sharply  halt  a  waggon.  "  Hold  on 
a  minute.  You  must  carry  this  woman.  She's 
fainted  twice  already."  The  virtuous  driver  of  the 
U.  S.  Army  waggon  mildly  answered  :  a  But  I'm 
full-up  now."  "  You  can  make  room  for  her,"  said 
the  private  of  the  Second  Cavalry.  A  young,  young 
man  with  a  straight  mouth.  It  was  merely  a  plain 
bit  of  nothing — at — all  but,  thank  God,  thank 
God,  he  seemed  to  have  not  the  slightest  sense  of 
excellence.  He  said  :  "  If  you've  got  anjr  man  in 
there  who  can  walk  at  all,  you  put  him  out  and 
let  this  woman  get  in."  "  But,"  answered  the 
teamster,  "  I'm  filled  up  with  a  lot  of  cripples  and 
grandmothers."  Thereupon  they  discussed  the 
point  fairly,  and  ultimately  the  woman  was  lifted 
into  the  waggon. 


WAR    MEMORIES  287 

The  vivid  thing  was  the  fact  that  these  people 
did  not  visibly  suffer.  Somehow  they  were 
numb.  There  was  not  a  tear.  There  was  rarely 
a  countenance  which  was  not  wondrously  casual. 
There  was  no  sign  of  fatalistic  theory.  It  was 
simply  that  what  was  happening  to-day  had  hap- 
pened yesterday,  as  near  as  one  could  judge.  I 
could  fancy  that  these  people  had  been  thrown 
out  of  their  homes  every  day.  It  was  utterly, 
utterly  casual.  And  they  accepted  the  ministra- 
tions of  our  men  in  the  same  fashion.  Everything 
was  a  matter  of  course.  I  had  a  filled  canteen. 
I  was  frightfully  conscious  of  this  fact  because  a 
filled  canteen  was  a  pearl  of  price  ;  it  was  a  great 
thing.  It  was  an  enormous  accident  which  led 
one  to  offer  praises  that  he  was  luckier  than  ten 
thousand  better  men. 

As  Leighton  and  I  rode  along,  we  came  to  a 
tree  under  which  a  refugee  family  had  halted. 
They  were  a  man,  his  wife,  two  handsome  daugh- 
ters and  a  pimply  son.  It  was  plain  that  they 
were  superior  people,  because  the  girls  had  dressed 
for  the  exodus  and  wore  corsets  which  captivated 
their  forms  with  a  steel-ribbed  vehemence  only 
proper  for  wear  on  a  sun-blistered  road  to  a  distant 
town.  They  asked  us  for  water.  Water  was  the 
gold  of  the  moment.  Leighton  was  almost  maud- 


288  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

lin  in  his  generosity.  I  remember  being  angry 
with  him.  He  lavished  upon  them  his  whole 
canteen  and  he  received  in  return  not  even  a 
glance  of — what  ?  Acknowledgment  ?  No,  they 
didn't  even  admit  anything.  Leighton  wasn't  a 
human  being ;  he  was  some  sort  of  a  mountain 
spring.  They  accepted  him  on  a  basis  of  pure 
natural  phenomena.  His  canteen  was  purely  an 
occurrence.  In  the  meantime  the  pimple-faced 
approached  me.  He  asked  for  water  and  held  out 
a  pint  cup.  My  response  was  immediate.  I 
tilted  my  canteen  and  poured  into  his  cup  almost 
a  pint  of  my  treasure.  He  glanced  into  the  cup 
and  apparently  he  beheld  there  some  innocent  sedi- 
ment for  which  he  alone  or  his  people  were  re- 
sponsible. In  the  American  camps  the  men  were 
accustomed  to  a  sediment.  Well,  he  glanced  at 
my  poor  cupful  and  then  negligently  poured  it  out 
on  the  ground  and  held  up  his  cup  for  more.  I 
gave  him  more  ;  I  gave  him  his  cup  full  again,  but 
there  was  something  within  me  which  made  me 
swear  him  out  completely.  But  he  didn't  under- 
stand a  word.  Afterward  I  watched  if  they  were 
capable  of  being  moved  to  help  on  their  less  able 
fellows  on  this  miserable  journey.  Not  they ! 
Nor  yet  anybody  else.  Nobody  cared  for  anybody 
save  my  young  friend  of  the  Second  Cavalry,  who 


WAR   MEMORIES  289 

rode  seriously  to  and  fro  doing  his  best  for  people, 
who  took  him  as  a  result  of  a  strange  upheaval. 

The  fight  at  El  Caney  had  been  furious.  Gen- 
eral Vera  del  Rey  with  somewhat  less  than  1000 
men — the  Spanish  accounts  say  520 — had  there 
made  such  a  stand  that  only  about  80  battered 
soldiers  ever  emerged  from  it.  The  attack  cost 
Lawton  about  400  men.  The  magazine  rifle! 
But  the  town  was  now  a  vast  parrot-cage  of  chat- 
tering refugees.  If,  on  the  road,  they  were  silent, 
stolid  and  serene,  in  the  town  they  found  their 
tongues  and  set  up  such  a  cackle  as  one  may 
seldom  hear.  Notably  the  women  ;  it  is  they  who 
invariably  confuse  the  definition  of  situations,  and 
one  could  wonder  in  amaze  if  this  crowd  of  irre- 
sponsible, gabbling  hens  had  already  forgotten 
that  this  town  was  the  deathbed,  so  to  speak, 
of  scores  of  gallant  men  whose  blood  was  not  yet 
dry ;  whose  hands,  of  the  hue  of  pale  amber,  stuck 
from  the  soil  of  the  hasty  burial.  On  the  way  to 
El  Caney  I  had  conjured  a  picture  of  the  women 
of  Santiago,  proud  in  their  pain,  their  despair, 
dealing  glances  of  defiance,  contempt,  hatred  at 
the  invader ;  fiery  ferocious  ladies,  so  true  to  their 
vanquished  and  to  their  dead  that  they  spurned 
the  very  existence  of  the  low-bred  churls  who 
lacked  both  Velasquez  and  Cervantes.  And 


290  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

instead,  there  was  this  mere  noise,  which  reminded 
one  alternately  of  a  tea-party  in  Ireland,  a  village 
fete  in  the  south  of  France,  and  the  vacuous 
morning  screech  of  a  swarm  of  sea-gulls.  "  Good. 
There  is  Donna  Maria.  This  will  lower  her  high 
head.  This  will  teach  her  better  manners  to  her 
neighbours.  She  wasn't  too  grand  to  send  her 
rascal  of  a  servant  to  borrow  a  trifle  of  coffee  of 
me  in  the  morning,  and  then  when  I  met  her  on 
the  calle — por  Dios,  she  was  too  blind  to  see  me. 
But  we  are  all  equal  here.  No  ?  Little  Juan  has 
a  sore  toe.  Yes,  Donna  Maria ;  many  thanks, 
many  thanks.  Juan,  do  me  the  favour  to  be  quiet 
while  Donna  Maria  is  asking  about  your  toe.  Oh, 
Donna  Maria,  we  were  always  poor,  always.  But 
you.  My  heart  bleeds  when  I  see  how  hard  this 
is  for  you.  The  old  cat !  She  gives  me  a  head- 
shake." 

Pushing  through  the  throng  in  the  plaza  we 
came  in  sight  of  the  door  of  the  church,  and  here 
was  a  strange  scene.  The  church  had  been  turned 
into  a  hospital  for  Spanish  wounded  who  had  fallen 
into  American  hands.  The  interior  of  the  church 
was  too  cave-like  in  its  gloom  for  the  eyes  of  the 
operating  surgeons,  so  they  had  had  the  altar  table 
carried  to  the  doorway,  where  there  was  a  bright 
light.  Framed  then  in  the  black  archway  was 


WAR    MEMORIES         •  2QI 

the  altar  table  with  the  figure  of  a  man  upon  it. 
He  was  naked  save  for  a  breech-clout  and  so  close, 
so  clear  was  the  ecclesiastic  suggestion,  that  one's 
mind  leaped  to  a  phantasy  that  this  thin,  pale 
figure  had  just  been  torn  down  from  a  cross. 
The  flash  of  the  impression  was  like  light,  and  for 
this  instant  it  illumined  all  the  dark  recesses  of 
one's  remotest  idea  of  sacrilege,  ghastly  and 
wanton.  I  bring  this  to  you  merely  as  an  effect, 
an  effect  of  mental  light  and  shade,  if  you  like  ; 
something  done  in  thought  similar  to  that  which 
the  French  impressionists  do  in  colour  ;  something 
meaningless  and  at  the  same  time  overwhelming, 
crushing,  monstrous.  "  Poor  devil  ;  I  wonder  if 
he'll  pull  through,"  said  Leighton.  An  American 
surgeon  and  his  assistants  were  intent  over  the 
prone  figure.  They  wore  white  aprons.  Some- 
thing small  and  silvery  flashed  in  the  surgeon's 
hand.  An  assistant  held  the  merciful  sponge 
close  to  the  man's  nostrils,  but  he  was  writhing  and 
moaning  in  some  horrible  dream  of  this  artificial 
sleep.  As  the  surgeon's  instrument  played,  I 
fancied  that  the  man  dreamed  that  he  was  being 
gored  by  a  bull.  In  his  pleading,  delirious  babble 
occurred  constantly  the  name  of  the  Virgin,  the 
Holy  Mother.  "  Good  morning,"  said  the  sur- 
geon. He  changed  his  knife  to  his  left  hand  and 


2Q2  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

gave  me  a  wet  palm.  The  tips  of  his  fingers  were 
wrinkled,  shrunken,  like  those  of  a  boy  who  has 
been  in  swimming  too  long.  Now,  in  front  of  the 
door,  there  were  three  American  sentries,  and  it 
was  their  business  to — to  do  what  ?  To  keep  this 
Spanish  crowd  from  swarming  over  the  operating 
table  !  It  was  perforce  a  public  clinic.  They 
would  not  be  denied.  The  weaker  women  and 
the  children  jostled  according  to  their  might  in  the 
rear,  while  the  stronger  people,  gaping  in  the  front 
rank,  cried  out  impatiently  when  the  pushing  dis- 
turbed their  long  stares.  One  burned  with  a 
sudden  gift  of  public  oratory.  One  wanted  to 
say  :  "  Oh,  go  away,  go  away,  go  away.  Leave 
the  man  decently  alone  with  his  pain,  you  gog- 
glers.  This  is  not  the  national  sport." 

But  within  the  church  there  was  an  audience  of 
another  kind.  This  was  of  the  other  wounded 
men  awaiting  their  turn.  They  lay  on  their  brown 
blankets  in  rows  along  the  stone  floor.  Their 
eyes,  too,  were  fastened  upon  the  operating-table, 
but — that  was  different.  Meek-eyed  little  yellow 
men  lying  on  the  floor  awaiting  their  turns. 

One  afternoon  I  was  seated  with  a  correspond- 
ent friend,  on  the  porch  of  one  of  the  houses  at 
Siboney.  A  vast  man  on  horseback  came  riding 
along  at  a  foot  pace.  When  he  perceived  my 


WAR   MEMORIES  293 

friend,  he  pulled  up  sharply.  "  Whoa  !  Where's 
that  mule  I  lent  you  ?  "  My  friend  arose  and  sa- 
luted. "  I've  got  him  all  right,  General,  thank  you," 
said  my  friend.  The  vast  man  shook  his  finger. 
"  Don't  you  lose  him  now."  "  No,  sir,  I  won't ; 
thank  you,  sir."  The  vast  man  rode  away.  "  Who 
the  devil  is  that  ?  "  said  I.  My  friend  laughed. 
"  That's  General  Shatter,"  said  he. 

I  gave  five  dollars  for  the  Bos'n — small,  black, 
spry  imp  of  Jamaica  sin.  When  I  first  saw  him  he 
was  the  property  of  a  fireman  on  the  Criton.  The 
fireman  had  found  him — a  little  wharf  rat — in  Port 
Antonio.  It  was  not  the  purchase  of  a  slave  ;  it  was 
that  the  fireman  believed  that  he  had  spent  about 
five  dollars  on  a  lot  of  comic  supplies  for  the  Bos'n, 
including  a  little  suit  of  sailor  clothes.  The  Bos'n 
was  an  adroit  and  fantastic  black  gamin.  His  eyes 
were  like  white  lights,  and  his  teeth  were  a  row  of 
little  piano  keys  ;  otherwise  he  was  black.  He  had 
both  been  a  jockey  and  a  cabin-boy,  and  he  had  the 
manners  of  a  gentleman.  After  he  entered  my 
service  I  don't  think  there  was  ever  an  occasion 
upon  which  he  was  useful,  save  when  he  told  me 
quaint  stories  of  Guatemala,  in  which  country  he 
seemed  to  have  lived  some  portion  of  his  infantile 
existence.  Usually  he  ran  funny  errands  like 
little  foot-races,  each  about  fifteen  yards  in  length. 


294  WOUNDS   IN   THE   RAIN 

At  Siboney  he  slept  under  my  hammock  like 
a  poodle,  and  I  always  expected  that,  through  the 
breaking  of  a  rope,  I  would  some  night  descend 
and  obliterate  him.  His  incompetence  was  spec- 
tacular. When  I  wanted  him  to  do  a  thing,  the 
agony  of  supervision  was  worse  than  the  agony  of 
personal  performance.  It  would  have  been  easier 
to  have  gotten  my  own  spurs  or  boots  or  blanket 
than  to  have  the  bother  of  this  little  incapable's 
service.  But  the  good  aspect  was  the  humorous 
view.  He  was  like  a  boy,  a  mouse,  a  scoundrel, 
and  a  devoted  servitor.  He  was  immensely  pop- 
ular. His  name  of  Bos'n  became  a  Siboney  stock- 
word.  Everybody  knew  it.  It  was  a  name  like 
President  McKinley,  Admiral  Sampson,  General 
Shafter.  The  Bos'n  became  a  figure.  One  day 
he  approached  me  with  four  one-dollar  notes  in 
United  States  currency.  He  besought  me  to  pre- 
serve them  for  him,  and  I  pompously  tucked  them 
away  in  my  riding  breeches,  with  an  air  which 
meant  that  his  funds  were  now  as  safe  as  if  they 
were  in  a  national  bank.  Still,  I  asked  with  some 
surprise,  where  he  had  reaped  all  this  money.  He 
frankly  admitted  at  once  that  it  had  been  given  to 
him  by  the  enthusiastic  soldiery  as  a  tribute  to  his 
charm  of  person  and  manner.  This  was  not  aston- 
ishing for  Siboney,  where  money  was  meaningless. 


WAR   MEMORIES  2QS 

Money  was  not  worth  carrying — "  packing."  How- 
ever, a  soldier  came  to  our  house  one  morning, 
and  asked,  "  Got  any  more  tobacco  to  sell?  "  As 
befitted  men  in  virtuous  poverty,  we  replied  with 
indignation.  "What  tobacco  ?"  "Why,  that 
tobacco  what  the  little  nigger  is  sellin'  round." 

I  said,  "  Bos'n !  "  He  said,  "Yes,  mawstah." 
Wounded  men  on  bloody  stretchers  were  being 
carried  into  the  hospital  next  door.  "  Bos'n, 
you've  been  stealing  my  tobacco."  His  defence 
was  as  glorious  as  the  defence  of  that  forlorn 
hope  in  romantic  history,  which  drew  itself  up 
and  mutely  died.  He  lied  as  desperately,  as 
savagely,  as  hopelessly  as  ever  man  fought. 

One  day  a  delegation  from  the  33d  Michigan  came 
to  me  and  said  :  "  Are  you  the  proprietor  of  the 
Bos'n  ?  "  I  said  :  "  Yes."  And  they  said  :  "  Well, 
would  you  please  be  so  kind  as  to  be  so  good  as 
to  give  him  to  us  ?  "  A  big  battle  was  expected 
for  the  next  day.  "  Why,"  I  answered,  "  if  you 
want  him  you  can  have  him.  But  he's  a  thief, 
and  I  won't  let  him  go  save  on  his  personal  an- 
nouncement." The  big  battle  occurred  the  next 
day,  and  the  Bos'n  did  not  disappear  in  it ;  but  he 
disappeared  in  my  interest  in  the  battle,  even  as  a 
waif  might  disappear  in  a  fog.  My  interest  in  the 
battle  made  the  Bos'n  dissolve  before  my  eyes. 


296  WOUNDS   IN   THE   RAIN 

Poor  little  rascal !  I  gave  him  up  with  pain.  He 
was  such  an  innocent  villain.  He  knew  no  more 
of  thievery  than  the  whole  of  it.  Anyhow  one 
was  fond  of  him.  He  was  a  natural  scoundrel. 
He  was  not  an  educated  scoundrel.  One  cannot 
bear  the  educated  scoundrel.  He  was  ingenuous, 
simple,  honest,  abashed  ruffianism. 

I  hope  the  33d  Michigan  did  not  arrive  home 
naked.  I  hope  the  Bos'n  did  not  succeed  in  get- 
ting everything.  If  the  Bos'n  builds  a  palace  in 
Detroit,  I  shall  know  where  he  got  the  money.  He 
got  it  from  the  33d  Michigan.  Poor  little  man. 
He  was  only  eleven  years  old.  He  vanished. 
I  had  thought  to  preserve  him  as  a  relic,  even 
as  one  preserves  forgotten  bayonets  and  fragments 
of  shell.  And  now  as  to  the  pocket  of  my  rid- 
ing-breeches. It  contained  four  dollars  in  United 
States  currency.  Bos'n !  Hey,  Bos'n,  where  are 
you  ?  The  morning  was  the  morning  of  battle. 

I  was  on  San  Juan  Hill  when  Lieutenant  Hob- 
son  and  the  men  of  the  Mtrrtmatwere  exchanged 
and  brought  into  the  American  lines.  Many  of 
us  knew  that  the  exchange  was  about  to  be  made, 
and  gathered  to  see  the  famous  party.  Some  of 
our  Staff  officers  rode  out  with  three  Spanish  of- 
ficers— prisoners — these  latter  being  blindfolded 
before  they  were  taken  through  the  American 


WAR   MEMORIES  2Q7 

position.  The  army  was  majestically  minding  its 
business  in  the  long  line  of  trenches  when  its  eye 
caught  sight  of  this  little  procession.  "  What's 
that  ?  What  they  goin'  to  do  ?  "  "  They're  goin' 
to  exchange  Hobson."  Wherefore  every  man 
who  was  foot-free  staked  out  a  claim  where  he 
could  get  a  good  view  of  the  liberated  heroes, 
and  two  bands  prepared  to  collaborate  on  "  The 
Star  Spangled  Banner."  There  was  a  very  long 
wait  through  the  sunshiny  afternoon.  In  our  im- 
patience, we  imagined  them — the  Americans  and 
Spaniards — dickering  away  out  there  under  the 
big  tree  like  so  many  peddlers.  Once  the  massed 
bands,  misled  by  a  rumour,  stiffened  themselves 
into  that  dramatic  and  breathless  moment  when 
each  man  is  ready  to  blow.  But  the  rumour  was 
exploded  in  the  nick  of  time.  We  made  ill  jokes, 
saying  one  to  another  that  the  negotiations  had 
found  diplomacy  to  be  a  failure,  and  were  playing 
freeze-out  poker  for  the  whole  batch  of  prisoners. 
But  suddenly  the  moment  came.  Along  the 
cut  roadway,  toward  the  crowded  soldiers,  rode 
three  men,  and  it  could  be  seen  that  the  central 
one  wore  the  undress  uniform  of  an  officer  of  the 
United  States  navy.  Most  of  the  soldiers  were 
sprawled  out  on  the  grass,  bored  and  wearied  in 
the  sunshine.  However,  they  aroused  at  the  old 


298  WOUNDS  IN    THE    RAIN 

circus-parade,  torch-light  procession  cry ,  "  Here 
they  come."  Then  the  men  of  the  regular  army 
did  a  thing.  They  arose  en  masse  and  came  to 
"  Attention."  Then  the  men  of  the  regular  army 
did  another  thing.  They  slowly  lifted  every 
weather-beaten  hat  and  drooped  it  until  it  touched 
the  knee.  Then  there  was  a  magnificent  silence, 
broken  only  by  the  measured  hoof-beats  of  the 
little  company's  horses  as  they  rode  through  the 
gap.  It  was  solemn,  funereal,  this  splendid  silent 
welcome  of  a  brave  man  by  men  who  stood  on  a 
hill  which  they  had  earned  out  of  blood  and 
death — simply,  honestly,  with  no  sense  of  excel- 
lence, earned  out  of  blood  and  death. 

Then  suddenly  the  whole  scene  went  to  rub- 
bish. Before  he  reached  the  bottom  of  the  hill, 
Hobson  was  bowing  to  right  and  left  like  another 
Boulanger,  and,  above  the  thunder  of  the  massed 
bands,  one  could  hear  the  venerable  outbreak, 
"  Mr.  Hobson,  I'd  like  to  shake  the  hand  of  the 
man  who "  But  the  real  welcome  was  that  wel- 
come of  silence.  However,  one  could  thrill  again 
when  the  tail  of  the  procession  appeared — an 
army  waggon  containing  the  blue-jackets  of  the 
Merrimac  adventure.  I  remember  grinning  heads 
stuck  out  from  under  the  canvas  cover  of  the 
waggon.  And  the  army  spoke  to  the  navy. 


WAR   MEMORIES  2Q9 

"Well,  Jackie,  how  does  it  feel  ?  "  And  the  navy 
iip  and  answered  :  "  Great !  Much  obliged  to 
you  fellers  for  comin'  here."  "Say,  Jackie,  what 
did  they  arrest  ye  for  anyhow  ?  Stealin'  a  dawg  ?  " 
The  navy  still  grinned.  Here  was  no  rubbish. 
Here  was  the  mere  exchange  of  language  between 
men. 

Some  of  us  fell  in  behind  this  small  but  royal 
procession  and  followed  it  to  General  Shafter's 
headquarters,  some  miles  on  the  road  to  Siboney. 
I  have  a  vague  impression  that  I  watched  the 
meeting  between  Shafter  and  Hobson,  but  the 
impression  ends  there.  However,  I  remember 
hearing  a  talk  between  them  as  to  Hobson's  men, 
and  then  the  blue-jackets  were  called  up  to  hear 
the  congratulatory  remarks  of  the  general  in  com- 
mand of  the  Fifth  Army  Corps.  It  was  a  scene 
in  the  fine  shade  of  thickly-leaved  trees.  The 
general  sat  in  his  chair,  his  belly  sticking  ridicu- 
lously out  before  him  as  if  he  had  adopted  some 
form  of  artificial  inflation.  He  looked  like  a  joss. 
If  the  seamen  had  suddenly  begun  to  burn  a  few 
sticks,  most  of  the  spectators  would  have  exhib- 
ited no  surprise.  But  the  words  he  spoke  were 
proper,  clear,  quiet,  soldierly,  the  words  of  one 
man  to  others.  The  Jackies  were  comic.  At  the 
bidding  of  their  officer  they  aligned  themselves 


300  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

before  the  general,  grinned  with  embarrassment 
one  to  the  other,  made  funny  attempts  to  correct 
the  alignment,  and — looked  sheepish.  They 
looked  sheepish.  They  looked  like  bad  little 
boys  flagrantly  caught.  They  had  no  sense  of 
excellence.  Here  was  no  rubbish. 

Very  soon  after  this  the  end  of  the  campaign 
came  for  me.  I  caught  a  fever.  I  am  not  sure 
to  this  day  what  kind  of  a  fever  it  was.  It  was 
defined  variously.  I  know,  at  any  rate,  that  I 
first  developed  a  languorous  indifference  to  every- 
thing in  the  world.  Then  I  developed  a  tendency 
to  ride  a  horse  even  as  a  man  lies  on  a  cot.  Then 
I—I  am  not  sure — I  think  I  grovelled  and  groaned 
about  Siboney  for  several  days.  My  colleagues, 
Scovel  and  George  Rhea,  found  me  and  gave  me 
of  their  best,  but  I  didn't  know  whether  London 
Bridge  was  falling  down  or  whether  there  was  a 
war  with  Spain.  It  was  all  the  same.  What  of 
it?  Nothing  of  it.  Everything  had  happened, 
perhaps.  But  I  cared  not  a  jot.  Life,  death, 
dishonour — all  were  nothing  to  me.  All  I  cared 
for  was  pickles.  Pickles  at  any  price  !  Pickles  !  ! 

If  I  had  been  the  father  of  a  hundred  suffering 
daughters,  I  should  have  waved  them  all  aside 
and  remarked  that  they  could  be  damned  for  all 
I  cared.  It  was  not  a  mood.  One  can  defeat  a 


WAR   MEMORIES  301 

mood.  It  was  a  physical  situation.  Sometimes 
one  cannot  defeat  a  physical  situation.  I  heard 
the  talk  of  Siboney  and  sometimes  I  answered, 
but  I  was  as  indifferent  as  the  star-fish  flung  to  die 
on  the  sands.  The  only  fact  in  the  universe  was 
that  my  veins  burned  and  boiled.  Rhea  finally 
staggered  me  down  to  the  army-surgeon  who 
had  charge  of  the  proceedings,  and  the  army- 
surgeon  looked  me  over  with  a  keen  healthy  eye. 
Then  he  gave  a  permit  that  I  should  be  sent 
home.  The  manipulation  from  the  shore  to  the 
transport  was  something  which  was  Rhea's  affair. 
I  am  not  sure  whether  we  went  in  a  boat  or  a 
balloon.  I  think  it  was  a  boat.  Rhea  pushed  me 
on  board  and  I  swayed  meekly  and  unsteadily 
toward  the  captain  of  the  ship,  a  corpulent,  well- 
conditioned,  impickled  person  pacing  noisily  on 
the  spar-deck.  "  Ahem,  yes ;  well ;  all  right. 
Have  you  got  your  own  food  ?  I  hope,  for 
Christ's  sake,  you  don't  expect  us  to  feed  you,  do 
you  ? "  Whereupon  I  went  to  the  rail  and 
weakly  yelled  at  Rhea,  but  he  was  already  afar. 
The  captain  was,  meantime,  remarking  in  bellows 
that,  for  Christ's  sake,  I  couldn't  expect  him  to 
feed  me.  I  didn't  expect  to  be  fed.  I  didn't 
care  to  be  fed.  I  wished  for  nothing  on  earth 
but  some  form  of  painless  pause,  oblivion.  The 


302  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

insults  of  this  old  pie-stuffed  scoundrel  did  not 
affect  me  then  ;  they  affect  me  now.  I  would 
like  to  tell  him  that,  although  I  like  collies,  fox- 
terriers,  and  even  screw-curled  poodles,  I  do  not 
like  him.  He  was  free  to  call  me  superfluous 
and  throw  me  overboard,  but  he  was  not  free  to 
coarsely  speak  to  a  somewhat  sick  man.  I — in 
fact  I  hate  him — it  is  all  wrong — I  lose  what- 
ever ethics  I  possessed — but — I  hate  him,  and  I 
demand  that  you  should  imagine  a  milch  cow 
endowed  with  a  knowledge  of  navigation  and  in 
command  of  a  ship — and  perfectly  capable  of 
commanding  a  ship  —  oh,  well,  never  mind. 
I  was  crawling  along  the  deck  when  somebody 
pounced  violently  upon  me  and  thundered : 
"  Who  in  hell  are  you,  sir  ?  "  I  said  I  was  a  cor- 
respondent. He  asked  me  did  I  know  that  I  had 
yellow  fever.  I  said  No.  He  yelled,  "  Well,  by 
Gawd,  you  isolate  yourself,  sir."  I  said ;  "  Where  ?  " 
At  this  question  he  almost  frothed  at  the  mouth. 
I  thought  he  was  going  to  strike  me.  "  Where  ?  " 
he  roared.  "  How  in  hell  do  I  know,  sir  ?  I 
know  as  much  about  this  ship  as  you  do,  sir.  But 
you  isolate  yourself,  sir."  My  clouded  brain  tried 
to  comprehend  these  orders.  This  man  was  a 
doctor  in  the  regular  army,  and  it  was  necessary 
to  obey  him,  so  I  bestirred  myself  to  learn  what 


WAR   MEMORIES  303 

he  meant  by  these  gorilla  outcries.  "  All  right, 
doctor ;  I'll  isolate  myself,  but  I  wish  you'd  tell 
me  where  to  go."  And  then  he  passed  into  such 
volcanic  humour  that  I  clung  to  the  rail  and 
gasped.  "  Isolate  yourself,  sir.  Isolate  yourself. 
That's  all  I've  got  to  say,  sir.  I  don't  give  a  God 
damn  where  you  go,  but  when  you  get  there,  stay 
there,  sir."  So  I  wandered  away  and  ended  up 
on  the  deck  aft,  with  my  head  against  the  flag- 
staff and  my  limp  body  stretched  on  a  little  rug. 
I  was  not  at  all  sorry  for  myself.  I  didn't  care  a 
tent-peg.  And  yet,  as  I  look  back  upon  it  now, 
the  situation  was  fairly  exciting — a  voyage  of 
four  or  five  days  before  me — no  food — no  friends 
— above  all  else,  no  friends — isolated  on  deck,  and 
rather  ill. 

When  I  returned  to  the  United  States,  I  was 
able  to  move  my  feminine  friends  to  tears  by  an 
account  of  this  voyage,  but,  after  all,  it  wasn't  so 
bad.  They  kept  me  on  my  small  reservation  aft, 
but  plenty  of  kindness  loomed  soon  enough.  At 
mess-time,  they  slid  me  a  tin  plate  of  something, 
usually  stewed  tomatoes  and  bread.  Men  are 
always  good  men.  And,  at  any  rate,  most  of  the 
people  were  in  worse  condition  than  I — poor 
bandaged  chaps  looking  sadly  down  at  the  waves. 
In  a  way,  I  knew  the  kind.  First  lieutenants  at 


304  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

forty  years  of  age,  captains  at  fifty,  majors  at  102, 
lieutenant-colonels  at  620,  full  colonels  at  1000, 
and  brigadiers  at  9,768,295  plus.  A  man  had  to 
live  two  billion  years  to  gain  eminent  rank  in  the 
regular  army  at  that  time.  And,  of  course,  they 
all  had  trembling  wives  at  remote  western  posts 
waiting  to  hear  the  worst,  the  best,  or  the  middle. 
In  rough  weather,  the  officers  made  a  sort  of 
a  common  pool  of  all  the  sound  legs  and  arms, 
and  by  dint  of  hanging  hard  to  each  other  they 
managed  to  move  from  their  deck  chairs  to 
their  cabins  and  from  their  cabins  again  to  their 
deck  chairs.  Thus  they  lived  until  the  ship 
reached  Hampton  Roads.  We  slowed  down  op- 
posite the  curiously  mingled  hotels  and  batteries 
at  Old  Point  Comfort,  and  at  our  mast-head  we 
flew  the  yellow-flag,  the  grim  ensign  of  the  plague. 
Then  we  witnessed  something  which  informed  us 
that  with  all  this  ship-load  of  wounds  and  fevers 
and  starvations  we  had  forgotten  the  fourth  ele- 
ment of  war.  We  were  flying  the  yellow  flag, 
but  a  launch  came  and  circled  swiftly  about  us. 
There  was  a  little  woman  in  the  launch,  and 
she  kept  looking  and  looking  and  looking.  Our 
ship  was  so  high  that  she  could  see  only  those 
who  rung  at  the  rail,  but  she  kept  looking  and 
looking  and  looking.  It  was  plain  enough — it 


WAR   MEMORIES  305 

was  all  plain  enough — but  my  heart  sank  with  the 
fear  that  she  was  not  going  to  find  him.  But 
presently  there  was  a  commotion  among  some 
black  dough-boys  of  the  24th  Infantry,  and  two  of 
them  ran  aft  to  Colonel  Liscum,  its  gallant  com- 
mander. Their  faces  were  wreathed  in  darkey 
grins  of  delight.  "  Kunnel,  ain't  dat  Mis'  Liscum, 
Kunnel  ?  "  "  What  ?  "  said  the  old  man.  He  got 
up  quickly  and  appeared  at  the  rail,  his  arm  in  a 
sling.  He  cried,  "  Alice  !  "  The  little  woman 
saw  him,  and  instantly  she  covered  up  her  face 
with  her  hands  as  if  blinded  with  a  flash  of  white 
fire.  She  made  no  outcry;  it  was  all  in  this 
simply  swift  gesture,  but  we — we  knew  them.  It 
told  us.  It  told  us  the  other  part.  And  in  a 
vision  we  all  saw  our  own  harbour-lights.  That  is 
to  say  those  of  us  who  had  harbour-lights. 

I  was  almost  well,  and  had  defeated  the  yellow- 
fever  charge  which  had  been  brought  against  me, 
and  so  I  was  allowed  ashore  among  the  first.  And 
now  happened  a  strange  thing.  A  hard  campaign, 
full  of  wants  and  lacks  and  absences,  brings  a  man 
speedily  back  to  an  appreciation  of  things  long 
disregarded  or  forgotten.  In  camp,  somewhere  in 
the  woods  between  Siboney  and  Santiago,  I  hap- 
pened to  think  of  ice-cream-soda.  I  had  done 

very  well  without   it   for  many  years ;  in  fact  I 
20 


306  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

think  I  loathe  it ;  but  I  got  to  dreaming  of  ice- 
cream-soda, and  I  came  near  dying  of  longing  for 
it.  I  couldn't  get  it  out  of  my  mind,  try  as  I 
would  to  concentrate  my  thoughts  upon  the  land 
crabs  and  mud  with  which  I  was  surrounded.  It 
certainly  had  been  an  institution  of  my  childhood, 
but  to  have  a  ravenous  longing  for  it  in  the  year 
1898  was  about  as  illogical  as  to  have  a  ravenous 
longing  for  kerosene.  All  I  could  do  was  to 
swear  to  myself  that  if  I  reached  the  United  States 
again,  I  would  immediately  go  to  the  nearest  soda- 
water  fountain  and  make  it  look  like  Spanish 
Fours.  In  a  loud,  firm  voice,  I  would  say,  "  Orange, 
please."  And  here  is  the  strange  thing  :  as  soon 
as  I  was  ashore  I  went  to  the  nearest  soda-water- 
fountain,  and  in  a  loud,  firm  voice  I  said,  "  Orange, 
please."  I  remember  one  man  who  went  mad 
that  way  over  tinned  peaches,  and  who  wandered 
over  the  face  of  the  earth  saying  plaintively, 
"  Have  you  any  peaches?" 

Most  of  the  wounded  and  sick  had  to  be  tab- 
ulated and  marshalled  in  sections  and  thor- 
oughly officialised,  so  that  I  was  in  time  to  take 
a  position  on  the  verandah  of  Chamberlain's 
Hotel  and  see  my  late  shipmates  taken  to  the 
hospital.  The  verandah  was  crowded  with  women 
in  light,  charming  summer  dresses,  and  with 


WAR   MEMORIES  307 

spruce  officers  from  the  Fortress.  It  was  like  a 
bank  of  flowers.  It  filled  me  with  awe.  All 
this  luxury  and  refinement  and  gentle  care  and 
fragrance  and  colour  seemed  absolutely  new.  Then 
across  the  narrow  street  on  the  verandah  of  the 
hotel  there  was  a  similar  bank  of  flowers.  Two 
companies  of  volunteers  dug  a  lane  through  the 
great  crowd  in  the  street  and  kept  the  way,  and 
then  through  this  lane  there  passed  a  curious 
procession.  I  had  never  known  that  they  looked 
like  that.  Such  a  gang  of  dirty,  ragged,  emaciated, 
half-starved,  bandaged  cripples  I  had  never  seen. 
Naturally  there  were  many  men  who  couldn't 
walk,  and  some  of  these  were  loaded  upon  a  big 
flat  car  which  was  in  tow  of  a  trolley-car.  Then 
there  were  many  stretchers,  slow-moving.  When 
that  crowd  began  to  pass  the  hotel  the  banks  of 
flowers  made  a  noise  which  could  make  one 
tremble.  Perhaps  it  was  a  moan,  perhaps  it  was 
a  sob — but  no,  it  was  something  beyond  either  a 
moan  or  a  sob.  Anyhow,  the  sound  of  women 
weeping  was  in  it. — The  sound  of  women  weeping. 
And  how  did  these  men  of  famous  deeds  appear 
when  received  thus  by  the  people?  Did  they 
smirk  and  look  as  if  they  were  bursting  with  the 
desire  to  tell  everything  which  had  happened  ? 
No  they  hung  their  heads  like  so  many  jail-birds. 


308  WOUNDS   IN   THE   RAIN 

Most  of  them  seemed  to  be  suffering  from  some- 
thing which  was  like  stage-fright  during  the  ordeal 
of  this  chance  but  supremely  eloquent  reception. 
No  sense  of  excellence — that  was  it.  Evidently 
they  were  vailing  to  leave  the  clacking  to  all  those 
natural  born  major-generals  who  after  the  war 
talked  enough  to  make  a  great  fall  in  the  price  of 
that  commodity  all  over  the  world. 

The  episode  was  closed.  And  you  can  depend 
upon  it  that  I  have  told  you  nothing  at  all, 
nothing  at  all,  nothing  at  all. 


THE  SECOND  GENERATION 


CASPAR  CADOGAN  resolved  to  go  to  the  tropic 
wars  and  do  something.  The  air  was  blue  and 
gold  with  the  pomp  of  soldiering,  and  in  every  ear 
rang  the  music  of  military  glory.  Caspar's  father 
was  a  United  States  Senator  from  the  great  State 
of  Skowmulligan,  where  the  war  fever  ran  very 
high.  Chill  is  the  blood  of  many  of  the  sons  of 
millionaires,  but  Caspar  took  the  fever  and  posted 
to  Washington.  His  father  had  never  denied 
him  anything,  and  this  time  all  that  Caspar  wanted 
was  a  little  Captaincy  in  the  Army — just  a  simple 
little  Captaincy. 

The  old  man  had  been  entertaining  a  delegation 
of  respectable  bunco-steerers  from  Skowmulligan 
who  had  come  to  him  on  a  matter  which  is  none 
of  the  public's  business. 

Bottles  of  whisky  and  boxes  of  cigars  were  still 
on  the  table  in  the  sumptuous  private  parlour. 
The  Senator  had  said,  "  Well,  gentlemen,  I'll  do 

309 


310  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

what  I  can  for  you."  By  this  sentence  he  meant 
whatever  he  meant. 

Then  he  turned  to  his  eager  son.  "  Well, 
Caspar  ? "  The  youth  poured  out  his  modest 
desires.  It  was  not  altogether  his  fault.  Life 
had  taught  him  a  generous  faith  in  his  own  abil- 
ities. If  any  one  had  told  him  that  he  was  simply 

an  ordinary  d d  fool  he  would  have  opened 

his  eyes  wide  at  the  person's  lack  of  judgment. 
All  his  life  people  had  admired  him. 

The  Skowmulligan  war-horse  looked  with  quick 
disapproval  into  the  eyes  of  his  son.  "  Well, 
Caspar,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  am  of  the  opinion 
that  they've  got  all  the  golf  experts  and  tennis 
champions  and  cotillion  leaders  and  piano  tuners 
and  billiard  markers  that  they  really  need  as  offi- 
cers. Now,  if  you  were  a  soldier " 

"  I  know,"  said  the  young  man  with  a  gesture, 
"  but  I'm  not  exactly  a  fool,  I  hope,  and  I  think 
if  I  get  a  chance  I  can  do  something.  I'd  like  to 
try.  I  would,  indeed." 

The  Senator  lit  a  cigar.  He  assumed  an  atti- 
tude of  ponderous  reflection.  "  Y — yes,  but  this 
country  is  full  of  young  men  who  are  not  fools. 
Full  of  'em." 

Caspar  fidgeted  in  the  desire  to  answer  that 
while  he  admitted  the  profusion  of  young  men  who 


THE   SECOND   GENERATION  311 

were  not  fools,  he  felt  that  he  himself  possessed 
interesting  and  peculiar  qualifications  which  would 
allow  him  to  make  his  mark  in  any  field  of  effort 
which  he  seriously  challenged.  But  he  did  not 
make  this  graceful  statement,  for  he  sometimes 
detected  something  ironic  in  his  father's  temper- 
ament. The  Skowmulligan  war-horse  had  not 
thought  of  expressing  an  opinion  of  his  own 
ability  since  the  year  1865,  when  he  was  young, 
like  Caspar. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  Senator  finally.  "  I'll 
see  about  it.  I'll  see  about  it."  The  young  man 
was  obliged  to  await  the  end  of  his  father's  charac- 
teristic method  of  thought.  The  war-horse  never 
gave  a  quick  answer,  and  if  people  tried  to  hurry 
him  they  seemed  able  to  arouse  only  a  feeling  of 
irritation  against  making  a  decision  at  all.  His 
mind  moved  like  the  wind,  but  practice  had  placed 
a  Mexican  bit  in  the  mouth  of  his  judgment. 
This  old  man  of  light  quick  thought  had  taught 
himself  to  move  like  an  ox  cart.  Caspar  said, 
"  Yes,  sir."  He  withdrew  to  his  club,  where,  to 
the  affectionate  inquiries  of  some  envious  friends, 
he  replied,  "  The  old  man  is  letting  the  idea 
soak." 

The  mind  of  the  war-horse  was  decided  far 
sooner  than  Caspar  expected.  In  Washington  a 


312  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

large  number  of  well-bred  handsome  young  men 
were  receiving  appointments  as  Lieutenants,  as 
Captains,  and  occasionally  as  Majors.  They  were 
a  strong,  healthy,  clean-eyed  educated  collection. 
They  were  a  prime  lot.  A  German  Field-Marshal 
would  have  beamed  with  joy  if  he  could  have  had 
them — to  send  to  school.  Anywhere  in  the 
world  they  would  have  made  a  grand  show  as 
material,  but,  intrinsically  they  were  not  Lieu- 
tenants, Captains  and  Majors.  They  were  fine 
men,  though  manhood  is  only  an  essential  part  of 
a  Lieutenant,  a  Captain  or  a  Major.  But  at  any 
rate,  this  arrangement  had  all  the  logic  of  going 
to  sea  in  a  bathing-machine. 

The  Senator  found  himself  reasoning  that  Caspar 
was  as  good  as  any  of  them,  and  better  than 
many.  Presently  he  was  bleating  here  and  there 
that  his  boy  should  have  a  chance.  "  The  boy's 
all  right,  I  tell  you,  Henry.  He's  wild  to  go,  and 
I  don't  see  why  they  shouldn't  give  him  a  show. 
He's  got  plenty  of  nerve,  and  he's  keen  as  a  whip- 
lash. I'm  going  to  get  him  an  appointment,  and 
if  you  can  do  anything  to  help  it  along  I  wish 
you  would." 

Then  he  betook  himself  to  the  White  House 
and  the  War  Department  and  made  a  stir.  People 
think  that  Administrations  are  always  slavishly, 


THE   SECOND   GENERATION  313 

abominably  anxious  to  please  the  Machine.  They 
are  not  ;  they  wish  the  Machine  sunk  in  red  fire, 
for  by  the  power  of  ten  thousand  past  words, 
looks,  gestures,  writings,  the  Machine  comes  along 
and  takes  the  Administration  by  the  nose  and 
twists  it,  and  the  Administration  dare  not  even 
yell.  The  huge  force  which  carries  an  election  to 
success  looks  reproachfully  at  the  Administration 
and  says,  "  Give  me  a  bun."  That  is  a  very 
small  thing  with  which  to  reward  a  Colossus. 

The  Skowmulligan  war-horse  got  his  bun  and 
took  it  to  his  hotel  where  Caspar  was  moodily 
reading  war  rumours.  "  Well,  my  boy,  here  you 
are."  Caspar  was  a  Captain  and  Commissary  on 
the  staff  of  Brigadier-General  Reilly,  commander 
of  the  Second  Brigade  of  the  First  Division  of  the 
Thirtieth  Army  Corps. 

"  I  had  to  work  for  it,"  said  the  Senator  grimly. 
"  They  talked  to  me  as  if  they  thought  you  were 
some  sort  of  empty-headed  idiot.  None  of  'em 
seemed  to  know  you  personally.  They  just  sort 
of  took  it  for  granted.  Finally  I  got  pretty  hot 
in  the  collar."  He  paused  a  moment ;  his  heavy, 
grooved  face  set  hard  ;  his  blue  eyes  shone.  He 
clapped  a  hand  down  upon  the  handle  of  his 
chair. 

"  Caspar,    I've  got  you  into  this  thing,  and  I 


314  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

believe  you'll  do  all  right,  and  I'm  not  saying  this 
because  I  distrust  either  your  sense  or  your  grit. 
But  I  want  you  to  understand  you've  got  to  make 
a  go  of  it.  I'm  not  going  to  talk  any  twaddle 
about  your  country  and  your  country's  flag.  You 
understand  all  about  that.  But  now  you're  a 
soldier,  and  there'll  be  this  to  do  and  that  to  do, 
and  fighting  to  do,  and  you've  got  to  do  every 

d done  of  'em  right  up  to  the  handle.  I  don't 

know  how  much  of  a  shindy  this  thing  is  going 
to  be,  but  any  shindy  is  enough  to  show  how 
much  there  is  in  a  man.  You've  got  your  ap- 
pointment, and  that's  all  I  can  do  for  you  ;  but  I'll 
thrash  you  with  my  own  hands  if,  when  the  Army 
gets  back,  the  other  fellows  say  my  son  is  '  noth- 
ing but  a  good-looking  dude.'  " 

He  ceased,  breathing  heavily.  Caspar  looked 
bravely  and  frankly  at  his  father,  and  answered  in 
a  voice  which  was  not  very  tremulous.  "  I'll  do 
my  best.  This  is  my  chance.  I'll  do  my  best 
with  it." 

The  Senator  had  a  marvellous  ability  of  transi- 
tion from  one  manner  to  another.  Suddenly  he 
seemed  very  kind.  "  Well,  that's  all  right,  then. 
I  guess  you'll  get  along  all  right  with  Rellly.  I 
know  him  well,  and  he'll  see  you  through.  I 
helped  him  along  once.  And  now  about  this 


THE    SECOND   GENERATION  315 

commissary  business.  As  I  understand  it,  a  Com- 
missary is  a  sort  of  caterer  in  a  big  way — that  is, 
he  looks  out  for  a  good  many  more  things  than  a 
caterer  has  to  bother  his  head  about.  Reilly's 
brigade  has  probably  from  two  to  three  thousand 
men  in  it,  and  in  regard  to  certain  things  you've 
got  to  look  out  for  every  man  of  'em  every  day. 
I  know  perfectly  well  you  couldn't  successfully 
run  a  boarding-house  in  Ocean  Grove.  How  are 
you  going  to  manage  for  all  these  soldiers,  hey  ? 
Thought  about  it  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Caspar,  injured.  "  I  didn't  want 
to  be  a  Commissary.  I  wanted  to  be  a  Captain 
in  the  line." 

"  They  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  They  said  you 
would  have  to  take  a  staff  appointment  where 
people  could  look  after  you." 

"  Well,  let  them  look  after  me,"  cried  Caspar 
resentfully  ;  "  but  when  there's  any  fighting  to 
be  done  I  guess  I  won't  necessarily  be  the  last 
man." 

"  That's  it,"  responded  the  Senator.  "  That's 
the  spirit."  They  both  thought  that  the  problem 
of  war  would  eliminate  to  an  equation  of  actual 
battle. 

Ultimately  Caspar  departed  into  the  South  to 
an  encampment  in  salty  grass  under  pine  trees. 


3l6  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

• 

Here  lay  an  Army  corps  twenty  thousand  strong. 
Caspar  passed  into  the  dusty  sunshine  of  it,  and 
for  many  weeks  he  was  lost  to  view. 


II 

"  Of  course  I  don't  know  a  blamed  thing  about 
it,"  said  Caspar  frankly  and  modestly  to  a  circle 
of  his  fellow  staff  officers.  He  was  referring  to  the 
duties  of  his  office. 

Their  faces  became  expressionless  ;  they  looked 
at  him  with  eyes  in  which  he  could  fathom  noth- 
ing. After  a  pause  one  politely  said,  "  Don't 
you  ?  "  It  was  the  inevitable  two  words  of  con- 
vention. 

"  Why,"  cried  Caspar,  "  I  didn't  know  what  a 
commissary  officer  was  until  I  was  one.  My  old 
Guv'nor  told  me.  He'd  looked  it  up  in  a  book 
somewhere,  I  suppose  ;  but  /didn't  know." 

"  Didn't  you  ?  " 

The  young  man's  face  glowed  with  sudden 
humour.  "  Do  you  know,  the  word  was  inti- 
mately associated  in  my  mind  with  camels.  Funny, 
eh  ?  I  think  it  came  from  reading  that  rhyme  of 
Kipling's  about  the  commissariat  camel." 

"  Did  it  ?  " 


THE    SECOND   GENERATION  317 

"  Yes.     Funny,  isn't  it  ?     Camels  !  " 

The  brigade  was  ultimately  landed  at  Siboney  as 
part  of  an  army  to  attack  Santiago.  The  scene 
at  the  landing  sometimes  resembled  the  inspirit- 
ing daily  drama  at  the  approach  to  the  Brooklyn 
Bridge.  There  was  a  great  bustle,  during  which 
the  wise  man  kept  his  property  gripped  in  his 
hands  lest  it  might  march  off  into  the  wilderness 
in  the  pocket  of  one  of  the  striding  regiments. 
Truthfully,  Caspar  should  have  had  frantic  occu- 
pation, but  men  saw  him  wandering  bootlessly  here 
and  there  crying,  "  Has  any  one  seen  my  saddle- 
bags? Why,  if  I  lose  them  I'm  ruined.  I've  got 
everything  packed  away  in  'em.  Everything !  " 

They  looked  at  him  gloomily  and  without  atten- 
tion. "  No,"  they  said.  It  was  to  intimate  that 
they  would  not  give  a  rip  if  he  had  lost  his  nose, 
his  teeth  and  his  self-respect.  Reilly's  brigade 
collected  itself  from  the  boats  and  went  off,  each 
regiment's  soul  burning  with  anger  because  some 
other  regiment  was  in  advance  of  it.  Moving 
along  through  the  scrub  and  under  the  palms,  men 
talked  mostly  of  things  that-  did  not  pertain  to  the 
business  in  hand. 

General  Reilly  finally  planted  his  headquarters 
in  some  tall  grass  under  a  mango  tree.  "  Where's 
Cadogan  ?  "  he  said  suddenly  as  he  took  off  his  hat 


318  WOUNDS    IN  THE    RAIN 

and  smoothed  the  wet  grey  hair  from  his  brow. 
Nobody  knew.  "  I  saw  him  looking  for  his 
saddle-bags  down  at  the  landing,"  said  an  officer 
dubiously.  "  Bother  him,"  said  the  General  con- 
temptuously. "  Let  him  stay  there." 

Three  venerable  regimental  commanders  came, 
saluted  stiffly  and  sat  in  the  grass.  There  was  a 
pow-wow,  during  which  Reilly  explained  much 
that  the  Division  Commander  had  told  him.  The 
venerable  Colonels  nodded ;  they  understood. 
Everything  was  smooth  and  clear  to  their  minds. 
But  still,  the  Colonel  of  the  Forty-fourth  Regular 
Infantry  murmured  about  the  commissariat.  His 
men — and  then  he  launched  forth  in  a  sentiment 
concerning  the  privations  of  his  men  in  which  you 
were  confronted  with  his  feeling  that  his  men — 
his  men  were  the  only  creatures  of  importance  in 
the  universe,  which  feeling  was  entirely  correct 
for  him.  Reilly  grunted.  He  did  what  most 
commanders  did.  He  set  the  competent  line  to 
doing  the  work  of  the  incompetent  part  of  the 
staff. 

In  time  Caspar  came  trudging  along  the  road 
merrily  swinging  his  saddle-bags.  "  Well,  Gen- 
neral,"  he  cried  as  he  saluted,  "  I  found  'em." 

"  Did  you  ? "  said  Reilly.  Later  an  officer 
rushed  to  him  tragically  :  "  General,  Cadogan  is 


THE   SECOND   GENERATION  319 

off  there  in  the  bushes  eatin'  potted  ham  and 
crackers  all  by  himself."  The  officer  was  sent 
back  into  the  bushes  for  Caspar,  and  the  General 
sent  Caspar  with  an  order.  Then  Reilly  and  the 
three  venerable  Colonels,  grinning,  partook  of 
potted  ham  and  crackers.  "  Tashe  a*  right,''  said 
Reilly,  with  his  mouth  full.  "  Dorsey,  see  if  'e 
got  some'n  else." 

"  Mush  be  selfish  young  pig,"  said  one  of  the 
Colonels,  with  his  mouth  full.  "  Who's  he, 
General  ?  " 

"  Son — Sen'tor  Cad'gan — ol'  frien'  mine — dash 
'im." 

Caspar  wrote  a  letter : 

"  Dear  Father :  I  am  sitting  under  a  tree  using  the 
flattest  part  of  my  canteen  for  a  desk.  Even  as  I  write  the 
division  ahead  of  us  is  moving  forward  and  we  don't  know 
what  moment  the  storm  of  battle  may  break  out.  I  don't 
know  what  the  plans  are.  General  Reilly  knows,  but  he  is 
so  good  as  to  give  me  very  little  of  his  confidence.  In  fact, 
I  might  be  part  of  a  forlorn  hope  from  all  to  the  contrary 
I've  heard  from  him.  I  understood  you  to  say  in  Washing- 
ton that  you  at  one  time  had  been  of  some  service  to  him,  but 
if  that  is  true  I  can  assure  you  he  has  completely  forgotten 
it.  At  times  his  manner  to  me  is  little  short  of  being  offen- 
sive, but  of  course  I  understand  that  it  is  only  the  way  of  a 
crusty  old  soldier  who  has  been  made  boorish  and  bearish 
by  a  long  life  among  the  Indians.  I  dare  say  I  shall  man- 
age it  all  right  without  a  row. 

11  When  you  hear  that  we  have  captured  Santiago,  please 
send  me  by  first  steamer  a  box  of  provisions  and  clothing, 


320  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

particularly  sardines,  pickles,  and  light-weight  underwear. 
The  other  men  on  the  staff  are  nice  quiet  chaps,  but  they 
seem  a  bit  crude.  There  has  been  no  fighting  yet  save  the 
skirmish  by  Young's  brigade.  Reilly  was  furious  because 
we  couldn't  get  in  it.  I  met  General  Peel  yesterday.  He 
was  very  nice.  He  said  he  knew  you  well  when  he  was  in 
Congress.  Young  Jack  May  is  on  Peel's  staff.  I  knew  him 
well  in  college.  We  spent  an  hour  talking  over  old  times. 
Give  my  love  to  all  at  home." 

The  march  was  leisurely.  Reilly  and  his  staff 
strolled  out  to  the  head  of  the  long,  sinuous 
column  and  entered  the  sultry  gloom  of  the 
forest.  Some  less  fortunate  regiments  had  to 
wait  among  the  trees  at  the  side  of  the  trail,  and 
as  Reilly's  brigade  passed  them,  officer  called  to 
officer,  classmate  to  classmate,  and  in  these 
greetings  rang  a  note  of  everything,  from  West 
Point  to  Alaska.  They  were  going  into  an  action 
in  which  they,  the  officers,  would  lose  over  a 
hundred  in  killed  and  wounded — officers  alone — 
and  these  greetings,  in  which  many  nicknames 
occurred,  were  in  many  cases  farewells  such  as  one 
pictures  being  given  with  ostentation,  solemnity, 
fervour.  "  There  goes  Gory  Widgeon !  Hello, 
Gory  !  Where  you  starting  for  ?  Hey,  Gory  !  " 

Caspar  communed  with  himself  and  decided 
that  he  was  not  frightened.  He  was  eager  and 
alert ;  he  thought  that  now  his  obligation  to  his 
country,  or  himself,  was  to  be  faced,  and  he  was 


THE   SECOND   GENERATION  321 

mad  to  prove  to  old  Reilly  and  the  others  that 
after  all  he  was  a  very  capable  soldier. 


Ill 


Old  Reilly  was  stumping  along  the  line  of 
his  brigade  and  mumbling  like  a  man  with  a 
mouthful  of  grass.  The  fire  from  the  enemy's 
position  was  incredible  in  its  swift  fury,  and 
Reilly's  brigade  was  getting  its  share  of  a  very 
bad  ordeal.  The  old  man's  face  was  of  the  colour 
of  a  tomato,  and  in  his  rage  he  mouthed  and 
sputtered  strangely.  As  he  pranced  along  his 
thin  line,  scornfully  erect,  voices  arose  from  the 
grass  beseeching  him  to  take  care  of  himself.  At 
his  heels  scrambled  a  bugler  with  pallid  skin  and 
clenched  teeth,  a  chalky,  trembling  youth,  who 
kept  his  eye  on  old  Reilly's  back  and  followed  it. 

The  old  gentleman  was  quite  mad.  Apparently 
he  thought  the  whole  thing  a  dreadful  mess,  but 
now  that  his  brigade  was  irrevocably  in  it  he  was 
full-tilting  here  and  everywhere  to  establish  some 
irreproachable,  immaculate  kind  of  behaviour  on 
the  part  of  every  man  jack  in  his  brigade.  The 
intentions  of  the  three  venerable  Colonels  were 
the  same.  They  stood  behind  their  lines,  quiet, 

21 


322  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

stern,  courteous  old  fellows,  admonishing  their 
regiments  to  be  very  pretty  in  the  face  of  such  a  hail 
of  magazine-rifle  and  machine-gun  fire  as  has  never 
in  this  world  been  confronted  save  by  beardless 
savages  when  the  white  man  has  found  occasion 
to  take  his  burden  to  some  new  place. 

And  the  regiments  were  pretty.  The  men  lay 
on  their  little  stomachs  and  got  peppered  accord- 
ing to  the  law  and  said  nothing,  as  the  good 
blood  pumped  out  into  the  grass,  and  even  if  a 
solitary  rookie  tried  to  get  a  decent  reason  to 
move  to  some  haven  of  rational  men,  the  cold 
voice  of  an  officer  made  him  look  criminal  with  a 
shame  that  was  a  credit  to  his  regimental  educa- 
tion. Behind  Reilly's  command  was  a  bullet-torn 
jungle  through  which  it  could  not  move  as  a 
brigade ;  ahead  of  it  were  Spanish  trenches  on 
hills.  Reilly  considered  that  he  was  in  a  fix  no 
doubt,  but  he  said  this  only  to  himself.  Suddenly 
he  saw  on  the  right  a  little  point  of  blue-shirted 
men  already  half-way  up  the  hill.  It  was  some 
pathetic  fragment  of  the  Sixth  United  States  In- 
fantry. Chagrined,  shocked,  horrified,  Reilly 
bellowed  to  his  bugler,  and  the  chalked-faced 
youth  unlocked  his  teeth  and  sounded  the  charge 
by  rushes. 

The  men  formed  hastily  and  grimly,  and  rushed. 


THE   SECOND   GENERATION  323 

Apparently  there  awaited  them  only  the  fate  of 
respectable  soldiers.  But  they  went  because — 
of  the  opinions  of  others,  perhaps.  They  went 
because — no  loud-mouthed  lot  of  jail-birds  such 
as  the  Twenty-Seventh  Infantry  could  do  any- 
thing that  they  could  not  do  better.  They  went 
because  Reilly  ordered  it.  They  went  because 
they  went. 

And  yet  not  a  man  of  them  to  this  day  has 
made  a  public  speech  explaining  precisely  how  he 
did  the  whole  thing  and  detailing  with  what  in- 
itiative and  ability  he  comprehended  and  defeated 
a  situation  which  he  did  not  comprehend  at  all. 

Reilly  never  saw  the  top  of  the  hill.  He  was 
heroically  striving  to  keep  up  with  his  men  when 
a  bullet  ripped  quietly  through  his  left  lung,  and 
he  fell  back  into  the  arms  of  the  bugler,  who  re- 
ceived him  as  he  would  have  received  a  Christ- 
mas present.  The  three  venerable  Colonels  in- 
herited the  brigade  in  swift  succession.  The 
senior  commanded  for  about  fifty  seconds,  at  the 
end  of  which  he  was  mortally  shot.  Before  they 
could  get  the  news  to  the  next  in  rank  he,  too, 
was  shot.  The  junior  Colonel  ultimately  arrived 
with  a  lean  and  puffing  little  brigade  at  the  top 
of  the  hill.  The  men  lay  down  and  fired  volleys 
at  whatever  was  practicable. 


324  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

In  and  out  of  the  ditch-like  trenches  lay  the 
Spanish  dead,  lemon-faced  corpses  dressed  in 
shabby  blue  and  white  ticking.  Some  were  hud- 
dled down  comfortably  like  sleeping  children  ; 
one  had  died  in  the  attitude  of  a  man  flung  back 
in  a  dentist's  chair ;  one  sat  in  the  trench  with  his 
chin  sunk  despondently  to  his  breast ;  few  pre- 
served a  record  of  the  agitation  of  battle.  With 
the  greater  number  it  was  as  if  death  had  touched 
them  so  gently,  so  lightly,  that  they  had  not 
known  of  it.  Death  had  come  to  them  rather  in 
the  form  of  an  opiate  than  of  a  bloody  blow. 

But  the  arrived  men  in  the  blue  shirts  had  no 
thought  of  the  sallow  corpses.  They  were  eagerly 
exchanging  a  hail  of  shots  with  the  Spanish  second 
line,  whose  ash-coloured  entrenchments  barred  the 
way  to  a  city  white  amid  trees.  In  the  pauses  the 
men  talked. 

"  We  done  the  best.  Old  E  Company  got 
there.  Why,  one  time  the  hull  of  B  Company 
was  behind  us." 

"  Jones,  he  was  the  first  man  up.     I  saw  'im." 

"  Which  Jones  ?  " 

"  Did  you  see  ol'  Two-bars  runnin'  like  a  land- 
crab?  Made  good  time,  too.  He  hit  only  in  the 
high  places.  He's  all  right." 

"  The  Lootenant  is  all  right,  too.     He  was  a 


THE   SECOND   GENERATION  325 

good  ten  yards  ahead  of  the  best  of  us.  I  hated 
him  at  the  post,  but  for  this  here  active  service 
there's  none  of  'em  can  touch  him." 

"  This  is  mighty  different  from  being  at  the 
post." 

"  Well,  we  done  it,  an*  it  wasn't  b'cause  1 
thought  it  could  be  done.  When  we  started,  I 

ses  to  m'self :  *  Well,  here  goes  a  lot  o'  d d 

fools.'  " 

"  'Tain't  over  yet." 

"  Oh,  they'll  never  git  us  back  from  here.  If 
they  start  to  chase  us  back  from  here  we'll  pile 
'em  up  so  high  the  last  ones  can't  climb  over. 
We've  come  this  far,  an'  we'll  stay  here.  I  ain't 
done  pantin'." 

"  Anything  is  better  than  packin'  through  that 
jungle  an'  gettin'  blistered  from  front,  rear,  an* 
both  flanks.  I'd  rather  tackle  another  hill  than 
go  trailin'  in  them  woods,  so  thick  you  can't  tell 
whether  you  are  one  man  or  a  division  of  cav'lry." 

"  Where's  that  young  kitchen-soldier,  Cadogan, 
or  whatever  his  name  is.  Ain't  seen  him  to-day." 

"  Well,  /  seen  him.  He  was  right  in  with  it. 
He  got  shot,  too,  about  half  up  the  hill,  in  the 
leg.  I  seen  it.  He's  all  right.  Don't  worry 
about  him.  He's  all  right." 

"  I  seen  'im,  too.     He  done  his  stunt.     As  soon 


326  WOUNDS   IN   THE   RAIN 

as  I  can  git  this  piece  of  barbed-wire  entangle- 
ment out  o'  me  throat  I'll  give  'm  a  cheer." 

"  He  ain't  shot  at  all,  b'cause  there  he  stands, 
there.  See  'im  ?  " 

Rearward,  the  grassy  slope  was  populous  with 
little  groups  of  men  searching  for  the  wounded. 
Reilly's  brigade  began  to  dig  with  its  bayonets 
and  shovel  with  its  meat-ration  cans. 


IV 


Senator  Cadogan  paced  to  and  fro  in  his 
private  parlour  and  smoked  small,  brown  weak 
cigars.  These  little  wisps  seemed  utterly  inade- 
quate to  console  such  a  ponderous  satrap. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  1st  of  July,  1898,  and 
the  Senator  was  immensely  excited,  as  could  be 
seen  from  the  superlatively  calm  way  in  which  he 
called  out  to  his  private  secretary,  who  was  in  an 
adjoining  room.  The  voice  was  serene,  gentle, 
affectionate,  low. 

"  Baker,  I  wish  you'd  go  over  again  to  the  War 
Department  and  see  if  they've  heard  anything 
about  Caspar." 

A  very  bright-eyed,  hatchet-faced  young  man 
appeared  in  a  doorway,  pen  still  in  hand.  He 


THE   SECOND   GENERATION  327 

was  hiding  a  nettle-like  irritation  behind  all  the 
finished  audacity  of  a  smirk,  sharp,  lying,  trust- 
worthy young  politician.  "  I've  just  got  back 
from  there,  sir,"  he  suggested. 

The  Skowmulligan  war-horse  lifted  his  eyes  and 
looked  for  a  short  second  into  the  eyes  of  his 
private  secretary.  It  was  not  a  glare  or  an  eagle 
glance  ;  it  was  something  beyond  the  practice  of 
an  actor;  it  was  simply  meaning.  The  clever 
private  secretary  grabbed  his  hat  and  was  at  once 
enthusiastically  away.  "  All  right,  sir,"  he  cried. 
"  I'll  find  out." 

The  War  Department  was  ablaze  with  light,  and 
messengers  were  running.  With  the  assurance  of 
a  retainer  of  an  old  house  Baker  made  his  way 
through  much  small-calibre  vociferation.  There 
was  rumour  of  a  big  victory  ;  there  was  rumour  of 
a  big  defeat.  In  the  corridors  various  watchdogs 
arose  from  their  armchairs  and  asked  him  of  his 
business  in  tones  of  uncertainty  which  in  no  wise 
compared  with  their  previous  habitual  deference 
to  the  private  secretary  of  the  war-horse  of  Skow- 
mulligan. 

Ultimately  Baker  arrived  in  a  room  where  some 
kind  of  head  clerk  sat  writing  feverishly  at  a 
roll-top  desk.  Baker  asked  a  question,  and  the 
head  clerk  mumbled  profanely  without  lifting  his 


328  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

head.  Apparently  he  said  :  "  How  in  the  blank- 
ety-blank  blazes  do  I  know  ?  " 

The  private  secretary  let  his  jaw  fall.  Surely 
some  new  spirit  had  come  suddenly  upon  the 
heart  of  Washington — a  spirit  which  Baker  under- 
stood to  be  almost  defiantly  indifferent  to  the 
wishes  of  Senator  Cadogan,  a  spirit  which  was 
not  courteously  oily.  What  could  it  mean  ? 
Baker's  fox-like  mind  sprang  wildly  to  a  concep- 
tion of  overturned  factions,  changed  friends,  new 
combinations.  The  assurance  which  had  come 
from  experience  of  a  broad  political  situation  sud- 
denly left  him,  and  he  would  not  have  been 
amazed  if  some  one  had  told  him  that  Senator 
Cadogan  now  controlled  only  six  votes  in  the 
State  of  Skowmulligan.  "  Well,"  he  stammered 
in  his  bewilderment,  "  well — there  isn't  any  news 
of  the  old  man's  son,  hey  ?  "  Again  the  head 
clerk  replied  blasphemously. 

Eventually  Baker  retreated  in  disorder  from 
the  presence  of  this  head  clerk,  having  learned 

that  the  latter  did  not  give  a if  Caspar  Cado- 

gan  were  sailing  through  Hades  on  an  ice  yacht. 

Baker  stormed  other  and  more  formidable  offi- 
cials. In  fact,  he  struck  as  high  as  he  dared. 
They  one  and  all  flung  him  short,  hard  words, 
even  as  men  pelt  an  annoying  cur  with  pebbles. 


THE   SECOND   GENERATION  329 

He  emerged  from  the  brilliant  light,  from  the 
groups  of  men  with  anxious,  puzzled  faces,  and 
as  he  walked  back  to  the  hotel  he  did  not  know 
if  his  name  were  Baker  or  Cholmondeley. 

However,  as  he  walked  up  the  stairs  to  the 
Senator's  rooms  he  contrived  to  concentrate  his 
intellect  upon  a  manner  of  speaking. 

The  war-horse  was  still  pacing  his  parlour 
and  smoking.  He  paused  at  Baker's  entrance. 
"Well?" 

"  Mr.  Cadogan,"  said  the  private  secretary 
coolly,  "they  told  me  at  the  Department  that 
they  did  not  give  a  cuss  whether  your  son  was 
alive  or  dead." 

The  Senator  looked  at  Baker  and  smiled  gently. 
"  What's  that,  my  boy  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  soft  and 
considerate  voice. 

"They  said "  gulped  Baker,  with  a  certain 

tenacity.  "  They  said  that  they  didn't  give  a  cuss 
whether  your  son  was  alive  or  dead." 

There  was  a  silence  for  the  space  of  three  sec- 
onds. Baker  stood  like  an  image ;  he  had  no 
machinery  for  balancing  the  issues  of  this  kind  of 
a  situation,  and  he  seemed  to  feel  that  if  he 
stood  as  still  as  a  stone  frog  he  would  escape 
the  ravages  of  a  terrible  Senatorial  wrath  which 
was  about  to  break  forth  in  a  hurricane  speech 


330  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

which  would  snap  off  trees  and  sweep  away 
barns. 

"Well,"  drawled  the  Senator  lazily,  "who  did 
you  see,  Baker?" 

The  private  secretary  resumed  a  certain  usual 
manner  of  breathing.  He  told  the  names  of  the 
men  whom  he  had  seen. 

"  Ye — e — es,"  remarked  the  Senator.  He  took 
another  little  brown  cigar  and  held  it  with  a 
thumb  and  first  finger,  staring  at  it  with  the  calm 
and  steady  scrutiny  of  a  scientist  investigating  a 
new  thing.  "  So  they  don't  care  whether  Caspar 
is  alive  or  dead,  eh  ?  Well  .  .  .  maybe  they 
don't.  .  .  .  That's  all  right.  .  .  .  However  .  .  . 
I  think  I'll  just  look  in  on  'em  and  state  my 
views." 

When  the  Senator  had  gone,  the  private  secre- 
tary ran  to  the  window  and  leaned  afar  out. 
Pennsylvania  Avenue  was  gleaming  silver  blue  in 
the  light  of  many  arc-lamps ;  the  cable  trains 
groaned  along  to  the  clangour  of  gongs  ;  from  the 
window,  the  walks  presented  a  hardly  diversified 
aspect  of  shirt-waists  and  straw  hats.  Sometimes 
a  newsboy  screeched. 

Baker  watched  the  tall,  heavy  figure  of  the 
Senator  moving  out  to  intercept  a  cable  train. 
"  Great  Scott !  "  cried  the  private  secretary  to 


THE   SECOND   GENERATION  331 

himself,  "  there'll  be  three  distinct  kinds  of  grand, 
plain  practical  fireworks.  The  old  man  is  going 
for  'em.  I  wouldn't  be  in  Lascum's  boots.  Ye 
gods,  what  a  row  there'll  be." 

In  due  time  the  Senator  was  closeted  with  some 
kind  of  deputy  third-assistant  battery-horse  in  the 
offices  of  the  War  Department.  The  official  ob- 
viously had  been  told  off  to  make  a  supreme  effort 
to  pacify  Cadogan,  and  he  certainly  was  acting 
according  to  his  instructions.  He  was  almost  in 
tears ;  he  spread  out  his  hands  in  supplication, 
and  his  voice  whined  and  wheedled. 

"  Why,  really,  you  know,  Senator,  we  can  only 
beg  you  to  look  at  the  circumstances.  Two  scant 
divisions  at  the  top  of  that  hill ;  over  a  thousand 
men  killed  and  wounded ;  the  line  so  thin  that 
any  strong  attack  would  smash  our  Army  to  flin- 
ders. The  Spaniards  have  probably  received  re- 
enforcements  under  Pando ;  Shafter  seems  to  be 
too  ill  to  be  actively  in  command  of  our  troops  ; 
Lawton  can't  get  up  with  his  division  before  to- 
morrow. We  are  actually  expecting  .  .  .  no,  I 
won't  say  expecting  .  .  .  but  we  would  not  be 
surprised  .  .  »  nobody  in  the  department  would 
be  surprised  if  before  daybreak  we  were  compelled 
to  give  to  the  country  the  news  of  a  disaster  which 
would  be  the  worst  blow  the  National  pride  has 


332  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

ever  suffered.  Don't  you  see  ?  Can't  you  see 
our  position,  Senator?  " 

The  Senator,  with  a  pale  but  composed  face, 
contemplated  the  official  with  eyes  that  gleamed 
in  a  way  not  usual  with  the  big,  self-controlled 
politician. 

"  I'll  tell  you  frankly,  sir,"  continued  the  other. 
"  I'll  tell  you  frankly,  that  at  this  moment  we 
don't  know  whether  we  are  a-foot  or  a-horseback. 
Everything  is  in  the  air.  We  don't  know  whether 
we  have  won  a  glorious  victory  or  simply  got  our- 
selves in  a  deuce  of  a  fix." 

The  Senator  coughed.  "  I  suppose  my  boy  is 
with  the  two  divisions  at  the  top  of  that  hill  ? 
He's  with  Reilly." 

"  Yes  ;  Reilly 's  brigade  is  up  there." 

"  And  when  do  you  suppose  the  War  Depart- 
ment can  tell  me  if  he  is  all  right.  I  want  to 
know." 

"  My  dear  Senator,  frankly,  I  don't  know. 
Again  I  beg  you  to  think  of  our  position.  The 
Army  is  in  a  muddle  ;  it's  a  General  thinking  that 
he  must  fall  back,  and  yet  not  sure  that  he  can 
fall  back  without  losing  the  Army.  Why,  we're 
worrying  about  the  lives  of  sixteen  thousand  men 
and  the  self-respect  of  the  nation,  Senator." 

"  I  see,"  observed  the  Senator,  nodding  his  head 


THE   SECOND   GENERATION  333 

slowly.  "  And  naturally  the  welfare  of  one  man's 
son  doesn't — how  do  they  say  it — doesn't  cut  any 
ice." 


V. 

And  in  Cuba  it  rained.  In  a  few  days  Reilly's 
brigade  discovered  that  by  their  successful  charge 
they  had  gained  the  inestimable  privilege  of  sitting 
in  a  wet  trench  and  slowly  but  surely  starving  to 
death.  Men's  tempers  crumbled  like  dry  bread. 
The  soldiers  who  so  cheerfully,  quietly  and  de- 
cently had  captured  positions  which  the  foreign 
experts  had  said  were  impregnable,  now  in  turn 
underwent  an  attack  which  was  furious  as  well  as 
insidious.  The  heat  of  the  sun  alternated  with 
rains  which  boomed  and  roared  in  their  falling  like 
mountain  cataracts.  It  seemed  as  if  men  took 
the  fever  through  sheer  lack  of  other  occupation. 
During  the  days  of  battle  none  had  had  time  to 
get  even  a  tropic  headache,  but  no  sooner  was  that 
brisk  period  over  than  men  began  to  shiver  and 
shudder  by  squads  and  platoons.  Rations  were 
scarce  enough  to  make  a  little  fat  strip  of  bacon 
seem  of  the  size  of  a  corner  lot,  and  coffee  grains 
were  pearls.  There  would  have  been  godless 
quarreling  over  fragments  if  it  were  not  that  with 


334  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

these  fevers  came  a  great  listlessness,  so  that  men 
were  almost  content  to  die,  if  death  required  no 
exertion. 

It  was  an  occasion  which  distinctly  separated 
the  sheep  from  the  goats.  The  goats  were  few 
enough,  but  their  qualities  glared  out  like  crimson 
spots. 

One  morning  Jameson  and  Ripley,  two  Captains 
in  the  Forty-fourth  Foot,  lay  under  a  flimsy  shelter 
of  sticks  and  palm  branches.  Their  dreamy,  dull 
eyes  contemplated  the  men  in  the  trench  which 
went  to  left  and  right.  To  them  came  Caspar 
Cadogan,  moaning.  "  By  Jove,"  he  said,  as  he 
flung  himself  wearily  on  the  ground,  "  I  can't 
stand  much  more  of  this,  you  know.  It's  killing 
me."  A  bristly  beard  sprouted  through  the  grime 
on  his  face  ;  his  eyelids  were  crimson  ;  an  inde- 
scribably dirty  shirt  fell  away  from  his  roughened 
neck ;  and  at  the  same  time  various  lines  of  evil 
and  greed  were  deepened  on  his  face,  until  he 
practically  stood  forth  as  a  revelation,  a  confession. 
"  I  can't  stand  it.  By  Jove,  I  can't." 

Stanford,  a  Lieutenant  under  Jameson,  came 
stumbling  along  toward  them.  He  was  a  lad  of 
the  class  of  '98  at  West  Point.  It  could  be  seen 
that  he  was  flaming  with  fever.  He  rolled  a  calm 
eye  at  them.  "  Have  you  any  water,  sir  ?"  he  said 


THE   SECOND   GENERATION  335 

to  his  Captain.  Jameson  got  upon  his  feet  and 
helped  Stanford  to  lay  his  shaking  length  under 
the  shelter.  "  No,  boy,"  he  answered  gloomily. 
"  Not  a  drop.  You  got  any,  Rip  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Ripley,  looking  with  anxiety 
upon  the  young  officer.  "  Not  a  drop." 

"You,  Cadogan?" 

Here  Caspar  hesitated  oddly  for  a  second,  and 
then  in  a  tone  of  deep  regret  made  answer,  "  No, 
Captain  ;  not  a  mouthful." 

Jameson  moved  off  weakly.  "  You  lay  quietly, 
Stanford,  and  I'll  see  what  I  can  rustle." 

Presently  Caspar  felt  that  Ripley  was  steadily 
regarding  him.  He  returned  the  look  with  one 
of  half-guilty  questioning. 

"  God  forgive  you,  Cadogan,"  said  Ripley,  "  but 
you  are  a  damned  beast.  Your  canteen  is  full  of 
water." 

Even  then  the  apathy  in  their  veins  prevented 
the  scene  from  becoming  as  sharp  as  the  words 
sounded.  Caspar  sputtered  like  a  child,  and  at 
length  merely  said :  "  No,  it  isn't."  Stanford 
lifted  his  head  to  shoot  a  keen,  proud  glance  at 
Caspar,  and  then  turned  away  his  face. 

"You  lie,"  said  Ripley.  "  I  can  tell  the  sound 
of  a  full  canteen  as  far  as  I  can  hear  it." 

"  Well,  if  it  is,  I— I  must  have  forgotten  it." 


336  WOUNDS   IN    THE    RAIN 

"  You  lie  ;  no  man  in  this  Army  just  now  for- 
gets whether  his  canteen  is  full  or  empty.  Hand 
it  over." 

Fever  is  the  physical  counterpart  of  shame,  and 
when  a  man  has  the  one  he  accepts  the  other 
with  an  ease  which  would  revolt  his  healthy  self. 
However,  Caspar  made  a  desperate  struggle  to 
preserve  the  forms.  He  arose  and  taking  the 
string  from  his  shoulder,  passed  the  canteen  to 
Ripley.  But  after  all  there  was  a  whine  in  his 
voice,  and  the  assumption  of  dignity  was  really  a 
farce.  "  I  think  I  had  better  go,  Captain.  You 
can  have  the  water  if  you  want  it,  I'm  sure.  But 
— but  I  fail  to  see — I  fail  to  see  what  reason  you 
have  for  insulting  me." 

"  Do  you  ?  "  said  Ripley  stolidly.  "  That's  all 
right." 

Caspar  stood  for  a  terrible  moment.  He 
simply  did  not  have  the  strength  to  turn  his  back 
on  this  — this  affair.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
must  stand  forever  and  face  it.  But  when  he 
found  the  audacity  to  look  again  at  Ripley  he 
saw  the  latter  was  not  at  all  concerned  with  the 
situation.  Ripley,  too,  had  the  fever.  The  fever 
changes  all  laws  of  proportion.  Caspar  went 
away. 

"  Here,  youngster ;  here  is  your  drink." 


THE   SECOND   GENERATION  337 

Stanford  made  a  weak  gesture.  "  I  wouldn't 
touch  a  drop  from  his  blamed  canteen  if  it  was 
the  last  water  in  the  world,''  he  murmured  in  his 
high,  boyish  voice. 

"  Don't  you  be  a  young  jackass,''  quoth  Ripley 
tenderly. 

The  boy  stole  a  glance  at  the  canteen.  He  felt 
the  propriety  of  arising  and  hurling  it  after  Cas- 
par, but — he,  too,  had  the  fever. 

"  Don't  you  be  a  young  jackass,"  said  Ripley 
again. 


VI 

Senator  Cadogan  was  happy.  His  son  had  re- 
turned from  Cuba,  and  the  8:30  train  that  evening 
would  bring  him  to  the  station  nearest  to  the 
stone  and  red  shingle  villa  which  the  Senator  and 
his  family  occupied  on  the  shores  of  Long  Island 
Sound.  The  Senator's  steam  yacht  lay  some 
hundred  yards  from  the  beach.  She  had  just  re- 
turned from  a  trip  to  Montauk  Point  where  the 
Senator  had  made  a  gallant  attempt  to  gain  his 
son  from  the  transport  on  which  he  was  coming 
from  Cuba.  He  had  fought  a  brave  sea-fight 
with  sundry  petty  little  doctors  and  ship's  offi- 
cers who  had  raked  him  with  broadsides,  describ- 

22 


338  WOUNDS   IN   THE   RAIN  < 

ing  the  laws  of  quarantine  and  had  used  inelegant 
speech  to  a  United  States  Senator  as  he  stood  on 
the  bridge  of  his  own  steam  yacht.  These  men 
had  grimly  asked  him  to  tell  exactly  how  much 
better  was  Caspar  than  any  other  returning 
soldier. 

But  the  Senator  had  not  given  them  a  long 
fight.  In  fact,  the  truth  came  to  him  quickly,  and 
with  almost  a  blush  he  had  ordered  the  yacht  back 
to  her  anchorage  off  the  villa.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  trip  to  Montauk  Point  had  been  under- 
taken largely  from  impulse.  Long  ago  the  Sen- 
ator had  decided  that  when  his  boy  returned  the 
greeting  should  have  something  Spartan  in  it. 
He  would  make  a  welcome  such  as  most  soldiers 
get.  There  should  be  no  flowers  and  carriages 
when  the  other  poor  fellows  got  none.  He 
should  consider  Caspar  as  a  soldier.  That  was 
the  way  to  treat  a  man.  But  in  the  end  a  sharp 
acid  of  anxiety  had  worked  upon  the  iron  old 
man,  until  he  had  ordered  the  yacht  to  take  him 
out  and  make  a  fool  of  him.  The  result  filled  him 
with  a  chagrin  which  caused  him  to  delegate  to 
the  mother  and  sisters  the  entire  business  of  suc- 
couring Caspar  at  Montauk  Point  Camp.  He  had 
remained  at  home  conducting  the  huge  correspon- 
dence of  an  active  National  politician  and  waiting 


THE   SECOND   GENERATION  339 

for  this  son  whom  he  so  loved  and  whom  he  so 
wished  to  be  a  man  of  a  certain  strong,  taciturn, 
shrewd  ideal.  The  recent  yacht  voyage  he  now 
looked  upon  as  a  kind  of  confession  of  his  weak- 
ness, and  he  was  resolved  that  no  more  signs 
should  escape  him. 

But  yet  his  boy  had  been  down  there  against 
the  enemy  and  among  the  fevers.  There  had 
been  grave  perils,  and  his  boy  must  have  faced 
them.  And  he  could  not  prevent  himself  from 
dreaming  through  the  poetry  of  fine  actions  in 
which  visions  his  son's  face  shone  out  manly  and 
generous.  During  these  periods  the  people  about 
him,  accustomed  as  they  were  to  his  silence  and 
calm  in  time  of  stress,  considered  that  affairs  in 
Skowmulligan  might  be  most  critical.  In  no 
other  way  could  they  account  for  this  exaggerated 
phlegm. 

On  the  night  of  Caspar's  return  he  did  not  go 
to  dinner,  but  had  a  tray  sent  to  his  library, 
where  he  remained  writing.  At  last  he  heard  the 
spin  of  the  dog-cart's  wheels  on  the  gravel  of  the 
drive,  and  a  moment  later  there  penetrated  to 
him  the  sound  of  joyful  feminine  cries.  He  lit 
another  cigar ;  he  knew  that  it  was  now  his  part 
to  bide  with  dignity  the  moment  when  his  son 
should  shake  off  that  other  welcome  and  come  to 


340  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

him,  He  could  still  hear  them  ;  in  their  exuber- 
ance they  seemed  to  be  capering  like  school- 
children. He  was  impatient,  but  this  impatience 
took  the  form  of  a  polar  stolidity. 

Presently  there  were  quick  steps  and  a  jubilant 
knock  at  his  door.  "  Come  in,"  he  said. 

In  came  Caspar,  thin,  yellow,  and  in  soiled 
khaki.  "  They  almost  tore  me  to  pieces,"  he 
cried,  laughing.  "  They  danced  around  like  wild 
things."  Then  as  they  shook  hands  he  dutifully 
said  "  How  are  you,  sir  ?  " 

"  How  are  you,  my  boy  ?  "  answered  the  Senator 
casually  but  kindly. 

"  Better  than  I  might  expect,  sir,"  cried  Caspar 
cheerfully.  "  We  had  a  pretty  hard  time,  you 
know." 

"You  look  as  if  they'd  given  you  a  hard 
run,"  observed  the  father  in  a  tone  of  slight 
interest. 

Caspar  was  eager  to  tell.  "  Yes,  sir,"  he  said 
rapidly.  "  We  did,  indeed.  Why,  it  was  awful. 
We — any  of  us — were  lucky  to  get  out  of  it  alive. 
It  wasn't  so  much  the  Spaniards,  you  know.  The 
Army  took  care  of  them  all  right.  It  was  the 
fever  and  the — you  know,  we  couldn't  get  anything 
to  eat.  And  the  mismanagement.  Why,  it  was 
frightful." 


THE   SECOND   GENERATION  341 

"Yes,  I've  heard,"  said  the  Senator.  A  certain 
wistful  look  came  into  his  eyes,  but  he  did  not 
allow  it  to  become  prominent.  Indeed,  he  sup- 
pressed it.  "  And  you,  Caspar  ?  I  suppose  you 
did  your  duty?  " 

Caspar  answered  with  becoming  modesty. 
"  Well,  I  didn't  do  more  than  anybody  else,  I 
don't  suppose,  but — well,  I  got  along  all  right,  I 
guess." 

"And  this  great  charge  up  San  Juan  Hill?" 
asked  the  father  slowly.  "  Were  you  in  that  ?  " 

"  Well — yes  ;  I  was  in  it,"  replied  the  son. 

The  Senator  brightened  a  trifle.  "You  were, 
eh  ?  In  the  front  of  it  ?  or  just  sort  of  going 
along?" 

"  Well— I  don't  know.  I  couldn't  tell  exactly. 
Sometimes  I  was  in  front  of  a  lot  of  them,  and 
sometimes  I  was — just  sort  of  going  along." 

This  time  the  Senator  emphatically  brightened. 
"  That's  all  right,  then.  And  of  course — of  course 
you  performed  your  commissary  duties  correctly  ?  " 

The  question  seemed  to  make  Caspar  uncom- 
municative and  sulky.  "  I  did  when  there  was 
anything  to  do,"  he  answered.  "  But  the  whole 
thing  was  on  the  most  unbusiness-like  basis  you 
can  imagine.  And  they  wouldn't  tell  you  any- 
thing. Nobody  would  take  time  to  instruct  you 


342  WOUNDS   IN   THE    RAIN 

in  your  duties,  and  of  course  if  you  didn't  know  a 
thing  your  superior  officer  would  swoop  down  on 
you  and  ask  you  why  in  the  deuce  such  and  such 
a  thing  wasn't  done  in  such  and  such  a  way.  Of 
course  I  did  the  best  I  could." 

The  Senator's  countenance  had  again  become 
sombrely  indifferent.  "  I  see.  But  you  weren't 
directly  rebuked  for  incapacity,  were  you  ?  No ; 
of  course  you  weren't.  But — I  mean — did  any  of 
your  superior  officers  suggest  that  you  were  '  no 
good/  or  anything  of  that  sort  ?  I  mean — did 
you  come  off  with  a  clean  slate  ?  " 

Caspar  took  a  small  time  to  digest  his  father's 
meaning.  "  Oh,  yes,  sir,"  he  cried  at  the  end  of 
his  reflection.  "  The  Commissary  was  in  such  a 
hopeless  mess  anyhow  that  nobody  thought  of 
doing  anything  but  curse  Washington." 

"  Of  course,"  rejoined  the  Senator  harshly. 
"  But  supposing  that  you  had  been  a  competent 
and  well-trained  commissary  officer.  What  then  ?  " 

Again  the  son  took  time  for  consideration,  and 
in  the  end  deliberately  replied  "  Well,  if  I  had 
been  a  competent  and  well-trained  Commissary  I 
would  have  sat  there  and  eaten  up  my  heart  and 
cursed  Washington." 

"  Well,  then,  that's  all  right.  And  now  about 
this  charge  up  San  Juan  ?  Did  any  of  the  Generals 


THE   SECOND   GENERATION  343 

speak  to  you  afterward  and  say  that  you  had  done 
well  ?  Didn't  any  of  them  see  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  n— n — no,  I  don't  suppose  they  did  .  .  . 
any  more  than  I  did  them.  You  see,  this  charge 
was  a  big  thing  and  covered  lots  of  ground,  and  I 
hardly  saw  anybody  excepting  a  lot  of  the  men." 

"  Well,  but  didn't  any  of  the  men  see  you  ? 
Weren't  you  ahead  some  of  the  time  leading  them 
on  and  waving  your  sword  ?  " 

Caspar  burst  into  laughter.  "  Why,  no.  I  had 
all  I  could  do  to  scramble  along  and  try  to  keep 
up.  And  I  didn't  want  to  go  up  at  all." 

"  Why  ?  "  demanded  the  Senator. 

"  Because — because  the  Spaniards  were  shooting 
so  much.  And  you  could  see  men  falling,  and  the 
bullets  rushed  around  you  in — by  the  bushel.  And 
then  at  last  it  seemed  that  if  we  once  drove  them 
away  from  the  top  of  the  hill  there  would  be  less 
danger.  So  we  all  went  up." 

The  Senator  chuckled  over  this  description. 
"  And  you  didn't  flinch  at  all  ?  " 

"Well,"  rejoined  Caspar  humorously,  "  I  won't 
say  I  wasn't  frightened." 

"  No,  of  course  not.  But  then  you  did  not  let 
anybody  know  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  You  understand,  naturally,  that  I  am  bother- 


344  WOUNDS    IN   THE    RAIN 

ing  you  with  all  these  questions  because  I  desire 
to  hear  how  my  only  son  behaved  in  the  crisis.  I 
don't  want  to  worry  you  with  it.  But  if  you  went 
through  the  San  Juan  charge  with  credit  I'll  have 
you  made  a  Major." 

"  Well,"  said  Caspar,  "  I  wouldn't  say  I  went 
through  that  charge  with  credit.  I  went  through 
it  all  good  enough,  but  the  enlisted  men  around 
went  through  in  the  same  way." 

"  But  weren't  you  encouraging  them  and  lead- 
ing them  on  by  your  example?  " 

Caspar  smirked.  He  began  to  see  a  point. 
"  Well,  sir,"  he  said  with  a  charming  hesitation. 
"  Aw — er — I — well,  I  dare  say  I  was  doing  my 
share  of  it." 

The  perfect  form  of  the  reply  delighted  the 
father.  He  could  not  endure  blatancy  ;  his  admira- 
tion was  to  be  won  only  by  a  bashful  hero.  Now 
he  beat  his  hand  impulsively  down  upon  the  table. 
"  That's  what  I  wanted  to  know.  That's  it  exactly. 
I'll  have  you  made  a  Major  next  week.  You've 
found  your  proper  field  at  last.  You  stick  to  the 
Army,  Caspar,  and  I'll  back  you  up.  That's  the 
thing.  In  a  few  years  it  will  be  a  great  career. 
The  United  States  is  pretty  sure  to  have  an  Army 
of  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  men.  And 
starting  in  when  you  did  and  with  me  to  back  you 


THE  SECOND   GENERATION  345 

up — why,  we'll  make  you  a  General  in  seven  or 
eight  years.  That's  the  ticket.  You  stay  in  the 
Army."  The  Senator's  cheek  was  flushed  with 
enthusiasm,  and  he  looked  eagerly  and  confidently 
at  his  son. 

But  Caspar  had  pulled  a  long  face.  "  The 
Army  ?  "  he  said.  "  Stay  in  the  Army  ?  " 

The  Senator  continued  to  outline  quite  rapt- 
urously his  idea  of  the  future.  "  The  Army, 
evidently,  is  just  the  place  for  you.  You  know  as 
well  as  I  do  that  you  have  not  been  a  howling  suc- 
cess, exactly,  in  anything  else  which  you  have  tried. 
But  now  the  Army  just  suits  you.  It  is  the  kind 
of  career  which  especially  suits  you.  Well,  then, 
go  in,  and  go  at  it  hard.  Go  in  to  win.  Go  at  it." 

"  But "  began  Caspar. 

The  Senator  interrupted  swiftly.  "  Oh,  don't 
worry  about  that  part  of  it.  I'll  take  care  of  all 
that.  You  won't  get  jailed  in  some  Arizona 
adobe  for  the  rest  of  your  natural  life.  There 
won't  be  much  more  of  that,  anyhow  ;  and  besides, 
as  I  say,  I'll  look  after  all  that  end  of  it.  The 
chance  is  splendid.  A  young,  healthy  and  intel- 
ligent man,  with  the  start  you've  already  got,  and 
with  my  backing,  can  do  anything — anything! 
There  will  be  a  lot  of  active  service — oh,  yes,  I'm 
sure  of  it — and  everybody  who " 


346  WOUNDS    IN    THE    RAIN 

"  But,"  said  Caspar,  wan,  desperate,  heroic, 
"  father,  I  don't  care  to  stay  in  the  Army." 

The  Senator  lifted  his  eyes  and  darkened. 
"What?"  he  said.  "  What's  that  ?"  He  looked 
at  Caspar. 

The  son  became  tightened  and  wizened  like  an 
old  miser  trying  to  withhold  gold.  He  replied 
with  a  sort  of  idiot  obstinacy,  "  I  don't  care  to 
stay  in  the  Army." 

The  Senator's  jaw  clinched  down,  and  he  was 
dangerous.  But,  after  all,  there  was  something 
mournful  somewhere.  "  Why,  what  do  you 
mean  ?  "  he  asked  gruffly. 

"  Why,  I  couldn't  get  along,  you  know.  The — 
the " 

"  The  what  ?  "  demanded  the  father,  suddenly 
uplifted  with  thunderous  anger.  "  The  what  ?  " 

Caspar's  pain  found  a  sort  of  outlet  in  mere 
irresponsible  talk.  "  Well,  you  know — the  other 
men,  you  know.  I  couldn't  get  along  with  them, 
you  know.  They're  peculiar,  somehow ;  odd  ;  I 
didn't  understand  them,  and  they  didn't  under- 
stand me.  We — we  didn't  hitch,  somehow. 
They're  a  queer  lot.  They've  got  funny  ideas. 
I  don't  know  how  to  explain  it  exactly,  but — 
somehow — I  don't  like  'em.  That's  all  there  is  to  it. 
They're  good  fellows  enough,  I  know,  but " 


THE   SECOND  GENERATION  347 

"Oh,  well,    Caspar,"  interrupted  the  Senator. 
Then  he  seemed  to  weigh  a  great  fact  in  his  mind. 

"  I    guess "     He   paused    again    in  profound 

consideration.     "I  guess—  He    lit   a  small, 

brown  cigar.     "  I  guess  you  are  no  damn  good." 


THE  END. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 
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JAN  11 77  *«• 

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MAY  12  79  *- 

MAY  2  2  1979  WI1 

DtC18'82 
DEC  11 1982 


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